"I thought the fellows had potted you when I heard that shot," exclaimed Waynsford, as he clambered over the side. "Well done, old man," he added cordially, as his glance fell upon the tell-tale wireless gear.
"You might send 'Pixie' to bring up the destroyer," suggested Aubyn. "It will save a lot of trouble if she tows this packet into port. Tell her to give the destroyer the tip: there may be German submarines about."
"What makes you think that?" asked Waynsford.
"The anxiety on the part of one of those fellows to let off a rocket. I'm glad I was able to stop his little game."
"How?"
"Oh, a pot-shot at five yards—sent the rocket-stick flying out of his hands. Wonder I didn't hit him."
"Serve him jolly well right if you had," added Waynsford. Already he was fairly conversant with German methods of kultur in connexion with nautical affairs, and to him every Teuton appeared in the light of a skulking treacherous foe.
"'Pixie,' ahoy!" he shouted, addressing his consort, which had now slowed down about half a cable's length away on the port quarter. "Get into touch with that destroyer: she's heading our way. Inform her commanding officer that we suspect hostile submarines in the vicinity."