The English youth didn't utter a sound. He hunched forward and sighted along Dave's trembling pointed finger. Then he saw her, too. Saw the wolf-pack of U-boats running at top speed on the surface astern of the raider. Smoke from the raider's single funnel was streaming back low over the stern of the craft. A clear indication that she was getting every ounce of drive out of her propellers. She was low in the water and rather than ride up over each roller, her sharp bow cut through it like a knife and sent sheets of frothing water mounting high over her forecastle. A ship of speed, and deadly fighting power, yet ugly and repulsive looking even though you did not know of the mission of murdering destruction on which she was bent.
"And there you are, you dirty sea rat!" Dave grated through clenched teeth. "Think you're on your way to hurt England, eh? Well, you've got another...."
Crack!
The bark of the gun was like the world exploding apart to Dave and Freddy. And even as the sharp sound came to their ears they both saw the tiny hole and mass of cracks that appeared as though by magic in the forward window. For a brief instant they both stared at it as though hypnotized. Then as one man they whirled around in their seats and gaped aft.
If the bark of a gun and a bullet hole in the forward window surprised them, then sight of the figure clutching the gun stunned them completely. He wore the uniform of an R.A.F. Flying Officer, but the uniform was splotched with dirt, and grease, and oil. He wore no cap and his hair dangled down over his forehead. On the right cheek of his not too bad looking face was an ugly gash that ran straight up and down. A few tiny drops of blood seeped out the lower end and dribbled down to the line of his jaw and dropped off to stain the front of his tunic. Apparently he had stowed away in an aft compartment of the plane.
Ten thousand exclamations surged up to Dave's lips but for the life of him he could not speak a word. His throat was bone dry, and his tongue was as big as a baseball bat in his mouth. It was the same with Freddy Farmer, and it seemed almost to be the same with the man holding the gun, for he said not a word either. He simply stood braced on the cat-walk leading aft, a cruel twist to his lips, a burning look of hatred in his eyes, and the Luger in his hand held rock steady and unwavering.
And then sound exploded from Dave Dawson's lips.
"Baron von Khole!" he cried.
The man with the gun stiffened slightly. Startled surprise and annoyance flashed across his face. Then suddenly he relaxed, smiled tight lipped, and made a short little bow from the waist.
"But, of course," he said in perfect English, as though talking to himself. "That swine, Manners, must have spoken to you. Anyway, you are correct, my young friend. I don't mind admitting it, now!"