It was turning the tables with a vengeance. A well-aimed projectile demolished the enemy's bridge and chart-house. Another started a fire for'ard—probably where the ammunition for the fo'c'sle guns was placed on deck, for a series of explosions followed in quick succession. Two shells, getting home 'twixt wind and water, gave the stranger her coup de grâce, for listing heavily to port she at length turned completely over. For a few minutes the whole of her keel was exposed; then, with a muffled roar as the boilers exploded, the hull slid beneath the waves.
In vain No. 0916 searched for survivors. There were none, so swift had been the destruction of the unknown craft. A few lifebuoys were recovered, but these gave no clue as to her identity.
"Destroyers bearing down, sir," reported one of the bluejackets, while Osborne was directing the operation of taking the felucca in tow once more. Pelting along at thirty-three knots, the Scragger and Grunter were quickly upon the scene.
"'What the dickens do you mean by wirelessing us?" enquired the genial Lieutenant-commander of the Scragger with feigned indignation. "You've done the job yourself, and pretty neatly, I should imagine."
"You might have been jolly useful," replied Osborne modestly. "It was just luck, you see."
"Well, what was the vessel? Do you know her name and nationality?"
"There was nothing to show what she was," replied the skipper of No. 0916.
"Then I suppose it will remain a mystery," added the Lieutenant-commander of the Scragger. "There are some queer cusses of craft knocking around in these waters. Well, we'll take your prize in tow, and you'll be able to keep in company, hands down. 'The Phantom Buccaneer; or, Blown to Bits by a Pigmy!' Some sort of a title for a novel, eh?"