"Heave us a line if you have one on board," shouted a boyish-looking lieutenant-commander, who, as he smiled displayed a set of white teeth that contrasted vividly with his deeply bronzed complexion. "We'll have all on board in a jiffey."
"We haven't a line," replied Blake courteously, "and we don't want to come on board, thanks all the same. We're effecting repairs and then we're off, I hope."
"Thought that Hun was strafing you," remarked the young officer.
"He was about to, when—I suppose you bagged him."
"We did," agreed the lieutenant-commander with pardonable pride. "We're out of your debt now, I take it."
Blake was genuinely taken aback.
"You've a bad memory, I'm afraid," continued the skipper of the submarine. "T'other day a Zepp was strafing us, and you strafed the Zepp. We came to the surface in time to see you sheering off. Nasty quarter of an hour while it lasted, by Jove! So now we're quits. Well, what's wrong?"
The difficulty with the watered petrol was explained.
"Don't bother about the rest," said the lieutenant-commander. "We've plenty on board. Only replenished at Cronstadt yesterday, and we don't do much surface running. We'll soon fix you up."
In a brief space of time a delivery hose was passed from the submarine to the battleplane, and with a prodigal generosity gallons of petrol were pumped into the latter's tanks.