"Yes, sir; Barcroft," he replied in answer to the senior officer's inquiry.
"Look here, Barcroft," resumed Sir George. "'Tantalus' has been submarined. She's still afloat. Her reported position is—— Got that down? Good. There's something very fishy about the business. The escorting destroyers had just returned under wireless orders from goodness only knows who. I am sending 'Antipas' and other destroyers to 'Tantalus's' assistance. I want a coastal airship to be on the spot with the utmost dispatch."
"Very good, sir," rejoined the flight-lieutenant.
"And," added Sir George Maynebrace drily, "I might add for your information that there are no British submarines operating within fifty miles of the given position. Good luck, Mr. Barcroft. Ring off."
Replacing the receiver Barcroft doubled back towards the sheds, adjusting his leather flying helmet as he ran. Half way across the large open space he encountered Kirkwood, the O.C. of Coastal Airship No. 144B, which was undergoing slight adjustments.
"Hullo, Bobby!" exclaimed Barcroft. "You're just the bounder I wanted. Look here, my sub's crocked—sprained his wrist. I had to push him into sick quarters not ten minutes ago."
"You want to pinch my sub, then, Billy?" asked Kirkwood with a smile.
"No," was the reply. "It's you I'm after, old man. The 'Tantalus' has been torpedoed, and I'm off to see what's to be done."
"Good enough!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "I'm ready. Grub on board, I hope?"
"Enough for a month on the Rhondda scale," replied Barcroft. "At any rate, there'll be sufficient even for your huge appetite.... Messenger!"