Raising himself with his uninjured arm, Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert shouted something in German. The distance was still too great to enable the U-boat's officers to understand. This time the Count was not called to order, for the whaler's crew knew only too well that the tables had been turned.
Slowing down, and then reversing her engines, the U-boat came to a standstill within twenty yards of the survivors of the Bolero.
"Vot boat is dat?" hailed the U-boat's unter-leutnant. "Vere you from? Vot is der name of der schip you vos come from?"
"Better tell him civil-like," suggested the bow-man. "So here goes."
But von Brockdorff-Giespert again took up his parable. Speaking volubly, he quickly explained matters to his satisfaction. Although none of the British seamen understood German, the purport of the Count's words were sufficiently plain to them.
Interpolated with numerous "Ja, Herr Kapitan" from the obsequious unter-leutnant of the U-boat, von Brockdorff-Giespert gave a string of orders. The whaler was then commanded to come alongside, and the Count was assisted on board the submarine.
"Now," thought Alec, "he's out of it. Wonder if the dirty dogs are going, to turn a machine-gun on us, or ram the boat."
His natural curiosity was quickly satisfied, for the unter-leutnant, stepping to the rail, leered down into the boat.
"Englisch offizier-pig!" he shouted. "You der hospitality of Zherman U-boat must make. We you take prisoner."