"Ye vos Sachsen!" called out an imploring voice. "Mercy, Kamerad."
The statement was a false one, and Setley knew it.
"You are Prussians," he replied; "but we'll give you quarter. Keep your hands up. The first man who lowers his arms will be shot."
Keeping close to the bows of the landship the crowd of now terrified Huns obeyed the instructions. Throwing open the armoured door, Corporal Anderson and two others of the crew emerged from the Tank and deftly removed the prisoners side-arms and ammunition. This done, they stood by to warn any parties of British bombers who in the heat of the pursuit might hurl their devastating missiles into the cellar.
In the midst of his task Anderson spotted one man's hand stealthily approaching his pocket.
"Wot 'ave you got there, old sport?" enquired the corporal, gripping the Hun's wrist. "Search 'im, Smutty," he added, addressing one of the Tommies.
The private did so, and discovered a small automatic pistol.
"So that's the bloomin' game, eh?" enquired Ginger. "Let 'im go, Smutty. Now, look to yourself, Fritz. I'm a-goin' to dot you one."
The German evidently understood, and clenching his fists stood on his guard. The next instant he was flat on his back, contemplating the superb display of a galaxy of stars that danced before his fast-closing eyes.
"What's up, Ginger?" asked Alderhame, and, glancing keenly at one of the prisoners, suddenly lapsed into his unbreakable habit of quoting the bard: