"Hope so," replied the sub laconically; but he had great misgivings on that score. Had it been a British submarine making for Portsmouth, she would almost certainly be running on the surface, in order to make her number before approaching the heavily-defended Needles channel.
Wildly excited, Tim forgot that he was steering and, putting the helm down, allowed the smack to gybe "all standing". The thud of the heavy boom as it swung across and brought up with a violent jerk, had the effect of making Old Garge emerge from the cuddy in a state of nautical profanity.
"What be you up to, you young lubber?" he shouted.
"Submarine, granfer," replied his youthful relative.
"No excuse for gybing," continued the skipper. "Do you mind what you are up to. Where be she?"
He shaded his eyes, expecting to see one of the British "C" or "E" class running awash. Instead, he saw only the tips of the periscopes.
"Drat it!" he ejaculated. "'Tain't for no good. Anyways, we're too small for her to trouble about we."
Apparently his conjectures were correct, for, with a feather of white foam, and a sullen swirl well in the wake of the periscope, the submarine disappeared wholly from sight.
"'Er's afeard of fouling our nets," declared Old Garge. "Now, if we gives the patrol-boat notice, an' that submarine is done for, there's fifty pun' at least for me. A matter of a couple o' months back my friend Peter----"
But what happened to Peter was a story that Jack Sefton was not permitted to hear, for with a quick, unhesitating motion the submarine reappeared at less than three cables' lengths ahead of the smack. Shaking herself clear of the water, she displayed the unmistakable outlines of a German unterseeboot, although no number was visible on her grey conning-tower.