"I don't know so much about that," said O'Hara, pointing aft, where a crowd of Japanese seamen were engaged in preparing a large flexible steel hawser. "It looks as if we were going to take her in tow. And it's a long, long way to Las Palmas, worse luck."
"She's a Dutchman," declared Stirling. "I can make out the red, white, and blue ensign. I wouldn't mind betting she's one of the Rotterdam and Batavia liners."
The three British officers relapsed into silence, devoting their whole attention upon the disabled liner which was now momentarily looming larger and larger as the Nichi Maru hastened to her aid.
Presently the engine-room telegraph bell clanged and the Japanese vessel's engines began to slow down. Two of the boats were swung out ready to be lowered, while the four ship's surgeons stood by, ready to be taken to the helpless Dutchman.
"Bad boiler-room accident," exclaimed one of the European passengers, who had learnt the news from a Japanese petty-officer.
"Boiler accident be hanged!" ejaculated Denbigh, excitedly. "We're done in, you fellows. That vessel's no Dutchman."
As if in confirmation of the Sub's announcement the tricolour of Holland was smartly lowered, its place being taken by that shame-faced and palpable imitation of the good old British White Ensign—the Black Cross of Germany. Simultaneously portions of the vessel's plating swung outboard, revealing a battery of six fifteen-centimetre Krupp guns.
"Nichi Maru, ahoy!" shouted a guttural voice in English, for the two vessels were now within megaphone-hailing distance. "Surrender instantly, or we send you to the bottom."
There was a pause, while the officer who had shouted the message was being prompted.
"Make no attempt to use your wireless," he continued. "That will not save you. It will make things very bad for you. Stand by to receive a prize crew."