"We must pick up those fellows," announced Kenneth, pointing to about twenty heads bobbing in the water. "I'll slow down as close as I can. Mind your wrist, Rollo."
Three minutes later all the crew of the motor-boat were busily engaged in hauling half-drowned, and for the most part wounded, German seamen into their craft, till eleven men, the sole survivors of the luckless torpedo-boat, were rescued.
"You Belgians?" asked one, in broken French, when he saw the lads' uniforms. "Good! We surrender to you."
"You'll be transferred to that vessel," said Kenneth, pointing to the now close British destroyer.
"No, they will shoot us," exclaimed the terrified man.
"Nonsense!" replied Kenneth. "British seamen are not like——" He was on the point of saying "Germans", but pulled himself up and added "pirates".
Nevertheless the German seamen were not easily reassured. Their officers had impressed upon them that the British navy took no prisoners, and they firmly believed it.
"Motor-boat ahoy! What craft is that?" sang out a lieutenant, as the British destroyer reversed her engines and came to a standstill at her own length from the little vessel. It was a grand, inspiring sight to the refugees to see the White Ensign floating proudly from the mast-heads of the destroyer. Practically untouched in her duel with her antagonist, she looked as spick and span as when she first commissioned at Chatham Dockyard, only a week previously.
"We're British in the Belgian service: refugees from Antwerp," replied Kenneth.
"We thought you were one of our Motor-boat Reserve craft in difficulties," said the officer. "Luckily we heard the firing, and closed to investigate. We'll take charge of your prisoners; can you run alongside?"