"If you do want a leg-up, don't put your dirty paws on our officer."
The Sub turned his head. Behind him was a German seaman, obviously distressed and in difficulties. He had been holding on to an oar, but the buoyancy of the wood was insufficient to keep his head above the surface.
"Can you swim?" asked Webb.
"Nein," spluttered the Hun. "Me vos no swim——"
"Then hang on to this," continued the Sub, pushing the broad end of the grating within reach of the German. The fellow seized it without a word of thanks.
"Most amiable-looking blighter," commented Webb, regarding the heavy, sullen features of the submariner. "Wonder if you were one of the crowd that jeered at the crew of that torpedoed Italian liner the other day? Shouldn't be at all surprised, but I suppose I must not ask awkward questions. Hallo, what's wrong now?"
A yell of rage attracted the young officer's attention. One of the Germans, either rendered temporarily insane by the fate of the U-boat, or else filled to overflowing with the gospel of "Gott strafe England", had made a sudden and furious attack upon one of the whaler's crew, who a minute or so previously had generously made room for the half-drowned Hun.
The latter, having regained his breath, had drawn a knife and had made several ineffectual attempts to sheathe the blade in the British seaman's body.
Jack Tar was quite equal to the occasion, although interrupted in the midst of "spinning a yarn" with his chum. Evading a sweep with the knife he gripped the German's arm, and drawing up his legs threw them over the shoulders of his assailant. Then, literally sitting on the Hun, he held him under water until he had swallowed a quart of petrol-tainted fluid and was reduced to a state of insensibility. This done, he allowed his assailant's head to appear above the surface, and supported him until the arrival of the Portchester Castle's boats.
"Why didn't you 'out' him while you were about it, mate?" enquired the man's "raggie".