"Wot's Fritz up to now?" inquired another, pointing in the direction of the hostile submarine.
The U-boat was forging ahead straight for the raft. Most of her crew were below, the others, save for the men at the for'ard quick-firer, were mustered aft.
At a cable's length away from the handful of survivors from the "Georgeos Nikolaos" she reversed engines, losing way within easy hailing distance. There were three officers on the navigating platform—a short man in the uniform of a kapitan-leutnant, an unter-leutnant, and a third in a great-coat, but showing no badges of rank.
"Where have I seen that josser before?" pondered Farrar. "By Jove, I have it! Von Loringhoven!"
The recognition was mutual, for the supernumerary officer pointed to the British sublieutenant and spoke a few rapid sentences to the kapitan-leutnant of the U-boat.
The latter turned and rapped out an order in hasty, guttural tones. With the utmost alacrity half a dozen hands unfolded a canvas boat, and launched her from the U-boat's deck. Manned by two seamen and the unter-leutnant, who held the tiller in one hand and ostentatiously brandished an automatic pistol in the other, the boat pulled towards the raft.
"You prisoner are," announced the German officer, addressing the sub. "Mit me you come must in dis boat."
"Let's fight it to a finish, sir," whispered Sampson. "We can do in this brass-bound swanker, and I reckon with his pistol I'll be able to score off those grinning Fritzes before we're knocked out."
Farrar shook his head.
"It's no use offering further resistance, Sampson," he replied. "They evidently require me rather badly. I don't want the hands to make any demonstration to upset the Huns. They seem pretty bad tempered as it is."