"Where the Christopher Columbus are you, old bird?" exclaimed Fuller, who, pausing in his work, had missed the rest of the "crew." "What, down on that float? What's wrong now?"
"We nearly bumped into a mine," reported the A.P. "The beastly thing was within six inches of my nose."
"A miss is as good as a mile," remarked the pilot nonchalantly. "If the thing had gone up six inches or six feet wouldn't have made any difference. They wouldn't have found either of us, and there wouldn't be enough of the pair of us to make a satisfying meal for a solitary North Sea herring. Look here. Up with you and give me a hand at filling the tank. I want to test my handiwork."
By the time the repairs were completed to the satisfaction of all hands, grey dawn was breaking over the wild North Sea. As far as the eye could penetrate the haze that hung about in detached patches the expanse of water was unbroken. Not a sail of any description was in sight and the beetling cliffs of the Yorkshire coast had long since dipped beneath the horizon.
"Fill her right up now," continued the pilot, indicating the repaired tank. "It's lucky we had so many spare tins of stuff on board. We'll mop up most of the petrol during the plug home against the wind, I reckon."
Fuller, deep in final adjustments, and Kirkwood hard at work emptying the contents of the petrol-cans into the tank, were unaware of the new menace that threatened them, until a huge grey shape loomed up within fifty yards to windward of the seaplane.
The shape was a German submarine mine-layer, She was running awash, while on the short, narrow platform in the wake of her conning-tower stood a couple of officers and a half a dozen seamen.
"You vos surrender make!" shouted one of the Germans.
"I'll see you to blazes first!" retorted Fuller as he frantically manipulated the starting mechanism.
For once the accurately-timed engine failed to respond to the master-hand. A mutinous back-fire was the only result. Fuller tried again but ineffectually.