Out fluttered the red ensign. Still there was no reply that gave a clue to the tramp's nationality. But she was now within hailing distance.
"Vat you vant?" shouted a voice from the tramp's bridge.
"We've rescued a German seaman from a destroyer. Can you give him a passage?"
"Vat you say? Me no onderstan'," came the exasperating reply.
"She's either a Dutchman or a German," said Detroit. "The name on her bows conveys nothing. Why not hail them in German?"
"Couldn't trust myself to make a public confession of my inability," replied Hamerton, with a laugh. "But, by Jove, although we're doing all this for Pfeil, I quite forgot him. He can do the chin-wagging part of the business."
In answer to a shout from the Sub, Hans Pfeil, who had been asleep in the fo'c'sle cot, came on deck. His clothes were still wet, since the air was too moist for drying purposes, and a comical figure he cut, wrapped up in a blanket, with his oilskin coat flung round his shoulders.
The sailor hailed, and an animated conversation took place between him and the skipper of the tramp.
"Heave her to," ordered Hamerton, seeing that the German tramp's propeller was going astern, and that the vessel was losing way. "They're going to lower a boat."
The two craft were now less than a cable's length apart and hardly moving through the water, but Hamerton would not risk running the Diomeda alongside the wallowing hull of the tramp. He waited for a boat to be sent.