"Come on, boys!" said Cumberleigh. "The old josser's getting jumpy."
"Is that an order or a request, Cumberleigh?" asked Pyecroft. "If it's an order, well and good; if not, I'm not having any."
"Please yourself, old man," replied the captain. "And the very best of luck."
The four stepped into the Pip-squeak. Her sail was hurriedly stowed, and under oars the boat approached the submarine.
"Der vos five!" exclaimed Ober-leutnant von Preugfeld, as the prisoners came over the side. "Vere is der odder?"
A look of blank ignorance appeared on each man's face. Even the spy failed to betray any sign that would reveal the secret. The kapitan turned to a petty officer.
"Place these men below," he ordered.
"These three in No. 3 store-room; this one will go aft. You, there," he added, addressing another seaman. "Take an axe and knock out the garboards of that boat."
Cumberleigh, Blenkinson and Jefferson found themselves escorted below in double quick time. When fear hangs on the heels of a U-boat's crew the promptness to execute an order borders on panic. Literally hustled along a narrow alley-way bristling with dozens, nay, scores, of valve-wheels, they were bundled into a dark, moisture-laden recess that at one time contained a quantity of consumable stores. The door was slammed and locked, and the three R.A.F. officers found themselves prisoners of war under highly objectionable circumstances—trapped in a U-boat.
Giving another glance skywards and all around the horizon, von Preugfeld walked aft to the hatchway through which von Preussen had disappeared. "I'll see you in the ward-room in less than five minutes, von Preussen," he said. "Apparently this affair requires an explanation. But what has become of the fourth Englishman?"