As each passenger gained the head of the gangway he was addressed by a steward and told which was his cabin, but as every man had to show his ticket it was pretty evident that the two Englishmen could not smuggle themselves on board without an almost certain risk of being challenged.
"The crew look to be pretty hefty chuckers-out," remarked Fuller ruefully, as he looked at the stalwart Danes. "Pity we hadn't knocked up the British vice-consul. I suppose the only thing to be done is to go straight on board and make a clean breast of it to the skipper. These Danes are awfully decent fellows, and their sympathies are almost always pro-British. The trouble is, that neither of us can speak Danish, although perhaps the skipper knows English."
Just then a cab drew up close to the pier and a tall, upright man with a trim torpedo beard alighted. A porter hastened to convey his somewhat scanty belongings. As he did so, a portmanteau slipped from his grasp and, rebounding on the planking of the pier, struck the owner a smart blow on the shin.
"Confound you, you idiot!" he exclaimed.
At the words, uttered in an unmistakably west-country accent, Tressidar walked straight up to the stranger.
"Excuse me," he said. "We're in a regular hole. We are British officers and have escaped from Germany. Can you help us to obtain a passage in the 'Nordby'?"
"You have not broken your parole, I trust?"
"We were never asked to give our parole," replied the sub. "We managed to get away from Sylt."
"Then you must be pretty smart," replied the stranger. "From all accounts it is a pretty tight place to be cooped up in. By the bye, what are your names?"
Tressidar gave the name and rank of his companion and himself