Meantime Pfeil went below to assemble his saturated garments. Then, clad only in his oilskin, and with the bundle of clothing under his arm, he took leave of his rescuers, again thanking them for saving his life.
This done, he entered the waiting boat, and was taken to the tramp. Without further delay the steamship gathered way, hoisting and dipping her ensign, to which the Diomeda replied, while from the taffrail could be discerned the oilskin-clad figure of the German sailor, still waving adieux to the men who had saved him from a watery grave.
"Haul down that ensign, old man," said the Sub when the tramp was almost out of sight. "It's too pretty to be flapping itself against the mizen halyards, now that a breeze is springing up."
Detroit, with his usual energy, sprang out of the cockpit and lowered the bunting, rolled it in a professional manner and jammed it between his knees, while he secured the halyard to a cleat. While thus engaged one end of the halyard slipped from between his fingers, and streamed to leeward. Hurriedly grasping the mizen shroud with one hand, he leant outboard to recover the errant cord. As he did so the sudden movement dislodged the ensign, and in an instant it was overboard.
"I'm right-down sorry, Hamerton," he exclaimed ruefully.
"Can't be helped," was the reply. "Accidents will happen, you know. We can get another for a matter of five or six marks at the first chandler's shop we come to ashore. But I rather fancied myself dropping anchor off the custom house at Cuxhaven with the red ensign at the masthead to signify that we had sailed a little eight-tonner from England."
"I'm an awkward mule," ejaculated Detroit. "Hope you are not superstitious; losing an ensign looks like a bad omen."
"Thanks, I'm not in the least superstitious," was the reply. "After all, it's of little consequence. But it's high time I went below and filled and trimmed the lamps."
The Diomeda's lamp-room was a small cupboard in the fo'c'sle. To get to it Hamerton had to remove the topsail that had reposed on the fo'c'sle floor since the previous night. As he did so he noticed a book lying under one of the folds of the canvas.
It was a small, blue-covered volume, saturated with salt water. A glance at the title told him the nature of the work. It was a treatise on the Schwartz-Kopff twenty-five-inch torpedo, a highly confidential work of which the British Admiralty had failed to obtain a copy in spite of the most strenuous efforts on the part of the Naval Intelligence Department.