The only reply he received was a prodigious grin and a most exasperating wink.
"Dash you, you fat-headed rascal!" exclaimed the incensed sub; "do you or do you not understand? Are you the captain? Where are your papers?"
Again a stolid movement of the fellow's left eye was the sole response.
"Cast off there!" ordered Holcombe. "Hanged if I won't have you taken in tow and introduce you to the Prize Court at Valetta."
Some of the whaler's crew cast off the hawser by which the "Georgeos Nikolaos" was made fast alongside the "Hopalong." The transport, with a destroyer in attendance, shaped a course to the nor'west, while the felucca was left rolling in the long swell.
Meanwhile Holcombe, ordering the Greek master to stand back—which he did with considerable alacrity to avoid the butt-end of one of the bluejackets' rifle descending upon his toes—proceeded to make a thorough overhaul of the presumed prize.
"Thought so!" he exclaimed triumphantly, as one of the seamen threw back the awning over the boat amidships, revealing a quick-firer. "A German gun, by the powers! Good enough, Knight. Clap those dirty-looking rascals under hatches. Flannigan," he continued, addressing a signalman, "semaphore the 'Antipas' and report that we have discovered the prize to be armed with a German-made quick-firer."
"Two, sir," corrected the signalman. "There's one on disappearing mountings up for'ard."
"Better still," chortled the hugely delighted sub. "Now, you blighters, you're under escort—can do? Savvy? Comprenez? Verstehen Sie das? Oh, chuck it with that infernal wink of yours!"
The Greek amiably complied with Holcombe's rather ungracious request, but promptly raised one eyebrow, which exasperated the sub still more. But just at that moment the fellow's facial contortions proved too much for the adhesibility of his moustache, which fell to the deck, revealing the features of Sub-Lieutenant Nigel Farrar.