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THE FRITZ STRAFERS

{Illustration: "DEFIANTLY DISPLAYED THE EMBLEM OF FREEDOM." [p. 284}

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

AUTHOR OF
"BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.," "A WATCHDOG OF THE NORTH SEA"
"A SUB OF THE R.N.R."
ETC. ETC.

LONDON
S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO. LTD.
OLD BAILEY

CONTENTS

THE FRITZ STRAFERS

CHAPTER I

"COMING EVENTS..."

"QUITE right for once, Moke. Young brothers are unmitigated nuisances," declared Hugh Holcombe. "If I hadn't been such a silly owl to let my young brother try his luck with my motor-bike, I wouldn't be sitting here in this muggy carriage. Any sign of Slogger yet?"

The youth addressed as Moke thrust his bulky head and shoulders out of the open window and made a deliberate survey of the road that ran steadily down the hillside until it merged into the station yard of the little town of Lynbury.

It was a case of somewhat regrettable inadvertence when fifteen years previously Sylvester's parents had had him christened in the name of Anthony Alexander; for when, in due course, the lad entered Claverdon College the fellows, the moment they saw his initials painted boldly upon his trunk and tuck-box, dubbed him "Moke," and the name stuck like tar.

He did not resent it, which showed tact. In fact, he rather rejoiced in the nickname. It harmonised with his slow, plodding, deliberate ways. Imprimis, he was a swot; modern languages were his forte, although he was no mean classical scholar for his age. Anything of a mechanical nature failed to interest him. He knew a motor-bike when he saw one, but that was all. Ask him "how it worked"—a question to which his companion would reply by a fusillade of highly technical explanations—and he was "bowled middle stump."

Hugh Holcombe was cast in a different mould. Except in point of age there was little in common between the two lads. Holcombe was tall for his age, and possessed the appearance of a budding athlete. Although in mufti—he was spending the last week of the Christmas vacation with an uncle at Southsea before rejoining Osborne College—there was a certain self-assurance that the natural outcome of a training that inspires manliness, self-reliance, and courage from the first moment that an embryo Nelson sets foot in the cradle of the Royal Navy.

And the still absent Slogger——?

Slogger must wait until he enters this narrative. Sufficient to say that the three lads—as yet mere strands in the vast fabric of Empire—were to make their mark in the titanic struggle that was to convulse the whole world, each working in a different manner to one and the same just purpose.

It was in those halcyon, far-off days preceding the fateful 4th day of August 1914. To be more precise, it was January of the preceding year. Little did hundreds, nay thousands, of doting parents then imagine that on land and sea, in the air and in the waters under the earth, would their sons risk, and often give their young lives, for King, Country, and Freedom's Cause.

"Not the suspicion of a sign," replied Sylvester to his companion's inquiry. "He'll miss the train if he doesn't buck up. Here's the guard toddling along the platform."

"Hope that silly cuckoo of a Slogger won't miss it!" exclaimed Holcombe, resting his hands on the Moke's back and peering through the narrow space betwixt the latter's broad shoulders and the top of the carriage window. "He promised he'd bring an accumulator along with him, and I want to have some fun with the beastly thing during the next few days."

It was nearly eight o'clock in the morning. The sun was on the point of rising, while over the town the retreating shadow of night still contended with the grey dawn of another day. Passengers in twos and threes, most of them carrying luggage, were hurrying towards the station in the knowledge that the 8 a.m., although it was usually later in starting, sometimes did steam out at five minutes to the hour. Still no signs of Slogger.

"Dash it all, the train's starting!" exclaimed the Moke, as a cloud of white vapour drifted from under the carriages.

"Not much," corrected Holcombe. "It's only the steam from the heating apparatus. The guard isn't ready yet."

He indicated the venerable official on whom under Providence depended the safety and welfare of such of His Majesty's lieges who adventured themselves upon the Lynbury and Marshton Branch Line. Usually the guard would walk along the platform, exchanging scraps of conversation with his patrons, most of whom he knew by name, but on this occasion he was seated on a large wicker hamper and was studiously and laboriously writing in a note-book.

Curiosity was one of the Moke's failings, in that he was unable to restrain an outward display of a desire for knowledge. The mere fact that the guard was seated within four yards of the carriage-window and yet failed to exchange the usual pleasantries with the hefty youth wearing the Claverdon College cap rather puzzled him.

"Hullo, guard!"

At this greeting the official raised his eyes, looked at Sylvester for a brief instant and resumed his absorbing task. It was too much for the Moke's curiosity.

"Hullo, guard!" he repeated. "You look busy."

It was just what the guard was waiting for. Slowly and deliberately he rose and walked up to the carriage window.

"I am, young gentleman," he replied. "I'm looking up the names of those passengers who remembered me last Christmas."

Holcombe chuckled audibly. His companion, striving to hide his confusion, fumbled in his pocket.

"Sorry, guard——" he began.

"Quite all right, sir," interposed the guard, waving aside the proffered sixpence. "I take the will for the deed. When you come to Lynbury as a member of the Diplomatic Corpse (the guard knew Moke's ambitions, although his rendering of the title of that branch of the Civil Service was a trifle gruesome and wide of the mark), an' you, young gentleman (indicating Holcombe), as a full-blown captain, then perhaps, if I'm still here to see you, I'll drink your health in a bottle of Kentish-brewed ale—best in the world, bar none."

He pulled out and consulted a large silver watch.

"Time we're off, young gents," he announced, as the clanging of the station bell resounded along the now almost deserted platform.

"Slogger's missed it," declared Holcombe as the whistle blew.

With a jerk the little train started on its five-mile journey. Already the last carriage was half way down the platform when a loud shout of "Stand-back, sir!" attracted the two lads' attention.

The next instant the door was thrown open, and with an easy movement the missing Slogger swung himself into the compartment and waved a friendly salute to the baffled porter who had vainly attempted to detain him.

"By Jove, Slogger!" exclaimed Hoke, "you've cut it fine. Incurring penalties, too, under the company's bye-laws."

"P'r'aps," rejoined the unruffled arrival. "What's more to the point, I've caught the train—see? Oh, by the by, Holcombe, here's that blessed accumulator I promised you. 'Fraid I've spilt some of the acid, but that can't be helped. Had to shove it in my pocket when I sprinted."

Holcombe took the proffered gift and, reluctantly sacrificing an advertisement paper from a recently purchased motor-journal, carefully wiped off the residue of the spilt acid, while Slogger, perfunctorily turning the lining of his pocket inside out and shaking it against the sill of the window, dismissed from his mind the possibilities of the corrosive action on his clothes.

Nigel Farrar, otherwise Slogger, was a tall, broad-shouldered youth of sixteen. His nom-de-guerre was singularly appropriate, as indeed most nicknames bestowed by one's chums in a public school usually are. He won it on the cricket field; upheld it in every sport and game in which he took part. His remark to the Moke was characteristic of his thoroughly practical manner. To attain a desired end he would, even at his present age, "force his way through a hedge of hide-bound regulations." It was on this account, and to a certain extent because he did not shine at studious work, that he did not wear a prefect's badge on his cap, although by far and away the most athletic youth at Claverdon.

Farrar and Holcombe were similar in more than one respect. Both were physically and morally strong; both were deeply interested in things mechanical and practical. They were typical examples of the modern boy. Even at an early age fairy tales would have "bored them stiff." Show them an exact model of an intricate piece of machinery they would probably pronounce it to be ripping, and almost in the same breath put forth sound theories as to how the mechanism actuated. But Farrar was rather inclined to be what is popularly described as "slap-dash." With him everything had to be done in a violent hurry, while Holcombe was slow and precise in his movements, although far in advance of the painstaking Moke, who stood an excellent chance of passing the "Civil Service Higher" provided he could speed up sufficiently to get his examination questions answered within the specified time limit.

As the train rattled and jolted on its journey the three travellers fell to discussing the still remote summer holidays.

"I'm off to Germany," announced the Moke. "The governor takes me every year, you know."

"You'll be nabbed one of these fine days, my festive, and clapped into a German prison," declared the naval cadet with the air of a man who enjoys the confidence of High Officialdom and is actually in the know.

"What for?" inquired Sylvester. "I don't run up against regulations every time I get the chance, either here or abroad," he added. "I'm not like Slogger, you know."

"Thanks for small mercies," rejoined Farrar. "As a matter of fact, Holcombe, my governor talks of taking the yacht to the Baltic. How about it? Like to come along too. Spiffing rag we can have."

"Thanks, no," replied Holcombe ungraciously. "When war with Germany breaks out I want to have a look in. It's on the cards that the Dartmouth cadets will be embarked for duty with the fleet if there's a scrap, and by that time I hope I'll have passed through Osborne."

"There'll be no war with Germany," declared the Moke with a firm conviction based upon his father's views upon the subject. "Germany is our very best friend at the present day."

"A good many fools think that," said Holcombe bluntly. "Those are the fellows who would barter our naval supremacy for the sake of a paltry six or eight millions a year."

"You talk as if you were a millionaire yourself," remarked Sylvester, with thinly veiled sarcasm. "Of course the navy's your firm that is to be. You're only a cadet yet, Holcombe, an' don't you forget it. What's the use of an expensive navy when disputes can be settled by arbitration?"

"Arbitration!" snorted Slogger. "What's the use of arbitration? It's all right for little nations when the big ones are on the spot to keep order. I guess Holcombe's right. There'll be a most unholy scrap some day between England and Germany, and we'll all have to chip in—every man-jack of us."

"Think so?" inquired Holcombe with professional jealousy. "The navy'll manage the business properly, and you civilian chaps can stop at home and thank your lucky stars there is a navy."

"Of course we'll return grateful thanks," agreed Farrar; "but all the same, the navy won't be able to see the business through without the assistance of the Naval Reserve and all that jolly crowd, you know. So it's just possible, my dear Holcombe, that you and I may be in the same scrap. Before that comes off I want to work in that trip to the Baltic this summer, so don't induce the Government to declare war just at present, will you, old sport?"

Half seriously, half in jest, the trio continued the discussion, unconscious of the fact that the subject was the shadow cast by coming events.

CHAPTER II

THE DANGER SIGNAL

A LONG and crowded train stood in Poldene Station prior to setting out upon the last stages of its journey from London to the Trecurnow Naval Base.

It was late in the autumn of 1917, and well into the fourth year of the titanic struggle that will go down to posterity as The Great War.

Save for a few aged male porters, half a dozen women of a type evolved by war-time conditions ("porteresses," a commander called them when hailing for some one to shift his gear from a taxi to the luggage-van), and a few keenly interested Devonshire children, the platform was devoid of the civilian element; but from one end to the other of the cambered expanse of asphalt pavement the down platform was teeming with officers and bluejackets, all only too glad to have the opportunity of stretching their stiff limbs after long and tedious hours of confinement in the train. Men whose moustaches were enough to proclaim them as members of the R.N.R. mingled with the clean-shaven or beardless stalwarts of the pukka navy, while others in salt-stained blue jerseys and sea-boots, hardy fishermen in pre-war days, were now about to fish for deadly catches—drifting mines.

Outside the open door of a carriage, almost at the end of the train, stood two officers. One was a medium-size, dark-featured man whose rank, as denoted by the strip of purple between the gold rings on his cuffs, was that of engineer-lieutenant. The other, a tall, powerfully-built youth—for he was not yet out of his teens—sported the uniform of a sub-lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve.

"It's a great wheeze—absolutely," declared the engineer-lieutenant, who was explaining a technical matter in detail to his deeply interested companion. "The double-cam action to the interrupted thread is some scheme, what? You follow me?"

"It certainly ought to put the wind up Fritz," admitted the sub. "But there's one point that I haven't yet got the hang of. The sighting arrangements may be all very well, but how about refraction?"

"We make due allowance, my festive," replied the engineer-lieutenant. "You see—hullo, you're not smoking!"

"Quite correct," agreed the junior officer. "Quite correct, Tommy. Matter of fact, like a blamed idiot I left my pouch in the smoking-room and never found it out until I arrived at the station. Too late to buy any off the stalls, you know."

"Cigarette?" The engineer-lieutenant's silver cigarette-case was proffered with the utmost alacrity. "You don't smoke 'em as a rule, I know, but in the harrowing circumstances——"

"Thanks," exclaimed his companion. Then deftly tearing the paper he roiled the liberated weed between the palms of his hands and filled his pipe.

"Rather unorthodox, what?" queried the engineer-lieutenant, smiling at the sight of a fellow ramming choice Egyptian cigarette tobacco into a briar.

"Possibly," admitted the other. "The main thing is that I've filled my pipe."

He struck a match, effectually shielding the light by his hands after the manner of men accustomed to do so in the teeth of a gale. "Now to return to earth once more."

"Slogger, by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed a crisp, full-toned voice. "What is dear old Slogger doing down in this part of the country?"

"Cadging tobacco," replied the R.N.V.R. man. "Also looking after the welfare and morals of a party of bluejackets. Bless my soul, Holcombe, this is great. Let me see—three years, isn't it, since we knocked up against each other?"

"Three years and two months," admitted Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe. "I saw your appointment announced and meant to write to you. Somehow I didn't. Why? Ask me another. I can't tell you. What's your ship?"

"The 'Tantalus,'" replied Farrar. "We're just off on convoy duties to the West Indies. Oh, by the way, let me introduce you to Tommy."

"Too late, old bird," exclaimed Holcombe, shaking hands with the engineer-lieutenant. "Tommy was in his last term at Osborne when I joined. D'ye remember that topping rag we had at Cowes, Tommy? Of course you do. An' I hear you dropped in for a chunk of kudos in the Jutland scrap?"

"Oh, dry up, do!" protested the modest hero. "What's your packet?"

"The 'Antipas,'" replied Holcombe. "Just commissioning."

"New destroyer, isn't she?" inquired Farrar.

"Yes; the old boat of that name piled herself on the rocks on the East Coast. We've got a topping skipper—Tressidar's his name. We're off Fritz-hunting in the Irish Sea, I hear. Not quite so exciting as the North Sea, perhaps, but I've had enough of the Auldhaig Flotilla Patrol for the present, thank you. Hullo, who's the Brass Hat?"

He indicated a tall, florid-featured Staff Officer in the uniform of a major who was striding between the press of bluejackets in the direction of the rear portion of the train. By his side walked a huge St. Bernard dog, muzzled and held by a massive steel chain.

"Hanged if I know," replied Farrar. "I didn't see him at Paddington, but that's not saying much. Suppose he's giving an eye to those Tommies in the fore-part of this packet. Fine dog, anyhow."

Orders were shouted along the platform. Rapidly the navy folk boarded the train until the major stood almost alone in the resplendent glory of his immaculate uniform.

"Guard!" he exclaimed peremptorily. "I want to accompany this brute in your compartment. He doesn't like a crowd, but he's quite safe when I'm with him."

"Very good, sir," replied the guard, touching his cap. "We're just off, sir."

"Wonder who the Brass Hat is?" reiterated Holcombe. "Did you notice that he didn't seem at all keen on salute-hunting? Kept well this end of the platform, and didn't have a pal to speak to. Well, if he is a hermit, he'll have solitude and repose in the luggage van. Dashed fine dog," he added in endorsement of his chum's declaration. "Advantage of having a Service chap for a master: no jolly worry about feeding the brute."

For some minutes silence reigned. The officers in the compartment were studiously watching the unsurpassable Devon scenery as the train swept through the coombes of the shire of the Sea Kings.

"Wonder when we'll see this sight again?" remarked Farrar. "Dash it all, I love the sea as a brother, but I'm jolly glad to get a sniff of the land after days and weeks of steady steaming. That's where you destroyer fellows score: a week or ten days is your limit."

Holcombe smiled.

"Think yourself jolly lucky, my festive volunteer," he rejoined. "You've generally dry decks, plenty of room to move about, and enough variety of companionship to save you from quarrelling with your messmates through sheer boredom. Try a destroyer for a change, and then see if you are of the same opinion. By the by," he added, "heard anything of the Moke?"

"Sylvester? Rather!" replied Farrar. "He's a prisoner in Hunland. Collared at Mayence when war broke out. Last I heard of him was that he was at Ruhleben."

"Poor bounder!" muttered Holcombe. "Was his governor collared too?"

"No; the Moke appears to have done rather a smart thing," answered Farrar. "He had a pal with him, it appeared, and the pal was taken queer and had to go to hospital. Sylvester had good reasons for supposing there was trouble ahead on the political horizon, so he bundled his parent down to Basle and made him promise to stop there until he heard from him. Meanwhile the Moke goes back to Mayence and stands by his chum, knowing that there was a thousand chances to one that he would be detained—and he was."

"Sort of Pythias and Damon, eh?" remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Sporty of him," added Holcombe. "Hullo, this looks a bit rotten. We're running into a fog."

The train was nearing a lofty double-spanned bridge across a wide river. The hitherto double track had merged into a single one, as the railway swept through a deep cutting on to the embankment that formed the approach to the main structure. Patches of mist were drifting slowly down the river, and although it was possible to see from shore to shore, the low-lying valley was blotted out by the rolling billows of vapour.

A great-coated sentry pacing resolutely up and down was a silent testimony to the importance of the bridge, and to the vigilance of the authorities, while a little way from the embankment could be seen a "blockhouse" outside of which other members of the guard were "standing easy."

Half way across the bridge the train pulled up. Immediately windows were opened and the long line of carriage windows were blocked with the faces of the curious bluejackets, the men taking advantage of the stop to engage in a cross-fire of chaff with the occupants of the adjoining carriages.

Ten minutes passed, but the train gave no sign of moving. Once or twice the driver blew an impatient blast, but the distant signal stood resolutely at danger.

"Nice old biff if the train did happen to jump the rails just here," remarked the engineer-lieutenant.

"Shut up, Tommy!" exclaimed Farrar. "You're making Holcombe jumpy."

"Stow it, Slogger!" protested the sub of the 'Antipas.' "I'm only going to have a look out. Here, I say; cast your eye this way."

"Periscope on the port bow, eh?" inquired Tommy facetiously, as the two men made their way to the window. "Gangway there, Holcombe. You ask us to admire something, and at the same time you block the view with your hulking carcase. I say, something fishy—what?"

Lying on the permanent way, almost abreast the front part of the guard's van, was a small leather suit-case, to the handle of which was attached a thin cord. Evidently some one had an object in wanting to dispose of the case, for an endeavour had apparently been made to swing it under the carriage; but, the cord breaking, the attempt had been frustrated.

"Jolly queer," agreed Farrar. "If any one wanted to get rid of the thing why didn't he heave it over the bridge? Here's the guard. We'll call his attention to it.... Suppose it's all right?"

The guard came hurrying along the permanent way. He had been conferring with the engine-driver as to the probable reason for the delay and had come to the decision to allow the train to proceed at a slow pace as far as the next station—a distance of about a quarter of a mile beyond the bridge—since it was impossible for a train coming in the opposite direction to enter the "block sector" at which the signal was at danger.

"Don't know how it came there, sir," declared the guard, when the derelict bag was brought to his notice. "It certainly wasn't there when I went by five minutes ago. Sure it's not your property, gentlemen?"

He spoke after the manner of a long-suffering official who ofttimes has been the victim of a practical joke on the part of facetious passengers.

"Not ours," replied Farrar. "Perhaps the driver's dropped his war-bonus?"

"Most-like the Army gent with the dog has got rid of some surplus rations, sir," countered the guard.

"Quite possible," agreed the engineer "luff" with a grin. "You ask him."

The guard clambered on the footboard and swung himself through the open doorway of the van. In five seconds he was back again.

"He's not there, sir," he reported, "and the dog neither. You didn't by any chance see him go along the permanent way?"

The three officers descended. Owing to the fact that the train was standing in a curve only two carriages were visible from where they stood. From the nearmost one an engineer-commander and a gunnery lieutenant were watching the proceedings with bored interest.

"Going to give the train a friendly leg-up, Tommy?" inquired the engineer-commander.

"We've found some one's kit, sir," replied the young officer, picking up the case and fumbling with the lock.

"Hold on!" exclaimed Holcombe warningly. "This isn't quite all jonnick to my fancy."

"What are you fellows doing?" asked the "gunnery-jack." "Shove the stuff in the scran-bag and don't keep the train waiting all day."

Holcombe took the bag from the engineer sub's hands and made his way to the carriage occupied by the last speaker.

"What do you make of this, sir?" he inquired. "We fancy it belonged to a Staff Officer—the one with a St. Bernard, you may remember—and he's left the train since we've been here."

The lieutenant examined the exterior of the derelict with rapidly increasing interest.

"Hang it all!" he exclaimed; "I'll take all responsibility. Here goes."

And with a powerful heave he hurled the bag over the edge of the bridge.

Seven seconds later a terrific crash rent the air. The pungent fumes of acrid-smelling smoke eddied between the lattice-work girders.

"Thought as much," remarked the lieutenant with a cheerful grin on his bronzed features. "Yankee troop train due about now, eh? Only waiting until we were clear of the bridge? Lucky for us we are over the centre of the span, or that stuff might have given the piers a nasty jar. Staff Officer, you said?"

"Yes, sir," replied Holcombe.

"Beat up a dozen hands," continued the lieutenant briskly. "I'll bear the brunt if they are left behind. We'll see if we can run this mysterious Brass Hat to earth. I say, Curtis," he added, turning to the engineer-commander, "he's had at least five minutes' start. Bet you a box of De Reszke's we catch the chap within an hour."

"Done," replied the other.

CHAPTER III

THE OBER-LEUTNANT'S JAUNT

MIDNIGHT, somewhere off the North Cornish coast. To be more accurate, the position was, according to observations made by Ober-leutnant Otto von Loringhoven commanding H.I.M. unterseeboot 254, was Hatstone Point south-south-east 1/4 east, and Polgereen Point south by west 1/4 west. The rugged coast was all but hidden in the low-lying mist, only the loftier headlands being visible against the starlit sky. There was little or no wind, but shorewards a continual rumble betokened the presence of ground-swell—the "fag-end" of enormous waves generated hundreds of miles away in the vast Atlantic.

U 254 was proceeding dead slow towards the shore. The steady beat of her muffled exhausts was only just audible above the lap of the water against her blunt bows and the ripple in the wake of her triple propellers.

The ober-leutnant was standing on a raised platform that surrounded the elongated conning-tower. He was a tall, heavily built man—massive-looking in his long double-breasted coat and sea-boots. On his head he wore a black sou'-wester that, with the turned-up collar of his greatcoat and the dark muffler round his neck, left only a small portion of his face exposed: pale pasty features, shaggy beetling brows, small beady eyes, a large nose, flattened at the tip, and a loose mouth partly hidden by a closely trimmed moustache.

Close behind him stood the unter-leutnant, Hans Kuhlberg, a typical, loose-limbed, weak-chinned Prussian. No further description of this young swashbuckler is necessary. A British schoolboy was once asked by an examiner to describe the manners and customs of a certain savage tribe of Central Africa. His reply, "Manners none; customs beastly," would be equally applicable to Hans Kuhlberg.

A quartermaster at the steering-wheel on deck and a couple of hands using the lead-line were the only members of the piratical Hun crew visible; the others, eighty worthy upholders of the debased cult of German sea-power, were stowed away within the three hundred feet of steel hull.

"Report when you find fifty metres," ordered von Loringhoven for the twentieth time, addressing the leadsmen in harsh yet restrained tones, for acting under instructions they refrained from announcing the "cast" lest the sound of their voices would carry to the ears of an alert British patrol-boat's crew.

"Are you really going ashore, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant, who was vigorously engaged in chewing an apple—part of the spoils from a captured topsail schooner that had been sunk off Lundy a couple of days previously.

"I said so, Hans," replied von Loringhoven, "and I mean to go. Himmel! A little less noise with your throat. One would think you were drinking soup."

"Sorry, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Hans Kuhlberg humbly. "It is a juicy—and I forgot."

U 254 was having a "day off." It was not her fault but her misfortune. Eighteen hours earlier she had approached a possible victim—a large cargo boat lying at anchor off Cardiff. Von Loringhoven was quite under the impression that the outlines of a destroyer showing up against her side was mere camouflage; but when the shadow became substance in the form of a very aggressive unit of the British Navy, U 254 was only too glad to dive. Even then it was a very narrow shave, for a four-inch shell whistled within a few inches of the periscopes. For the time being von Loringhoven prudently decided to keep away from the recognised trade routes and find a less unhealthy spot in order to charge batteries. Closing with the Cornish coast the ober-leutnant took it into his head to have a jaunt ashore on English soil.

"Fifty metres, Herr Kapitan, and a sandy bottom," reported the leadsman.

"Good!" ejaculated von Loringhoven. "See that the collapsible boat is launched, Kuhlberg. I am leaving you in charge. Keep awash, unless you sight anything of a suspicious nature, until dawn. Then rest on the bottom. At one o'clock—twenty-five hours from now—send a boat for me. Is there anything you want me to bring back?"

"Tobacco and cigarettes, Herr Kapitan," replied the unter-leutnant. "These English are swine, but they manage to get excellent tobacco. I was in hopes that when we sent that Dutch vessel to the bottom we might find good tobacco, but, ach! the stuff we found was intolerable."

His superior officer laughed.

"There is a box of cigars in my cabin," he remarked. "Mind they don't turn your head. I go and change in order to meet Englishmen as one of themselves."

Von Loringhoven disappeared below, to return in a quarter of an hour's time dressed in civilian clothes.

"Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" asked Kuhlberg. "Your get-up is superb; yet, if you should be detected, you will be shot as a spy."

"I doubt it," rejoined the ober-leutnant. "These English are not thorough like us. They would hesitate before condemning to death a German naval officer; rather they would make much of him. An account of his adventures would appear in the British newspapers.... Nevertheless, don't think, Kuhlberg, that I want to desert you indefinitely. It is only for a few hours. Boat ready?" he inquired, dropping his bantering tone.

With muffled oars the boat approached the shore, von Loringhoven handling the yoke-lines with the air of a man who is well acquainted with his surroundings. Less than four years previously he had spent a month in North Cornwall, ostensibly to indulge in "surf-bathing." There was hardly a cove betwixt Hartland Point and St. Ives that he had not explored, aiding his trained memory by means of photographic and business-like sketches.

"Lay on your oars!" ordered the ober-leutnant, as the boat glided under the overhanging cliffs of a bold headland.

Von Loringhoven produced a powerful pair of Zeiss binoculars from his coat pocket, and focussed them upon a ledge of rocks that formed a breakwater, partly natural, partly artificial, to a tidal harbour.

"H'm," he muttered. "I thought so. They have patrols out. No matter, I must take the Fisherman's Stairs. Give way gently, men."

Protected by an outlying ledge the cove for which the boat was making was uninfluenced by the sullen ground swell. Noiselessly and unseen von Loringhoven stepped ashore, gave a few whispered instructions to the coxswain, and sent the boat back to the lurking submarine.

The ober-leutnant waited until the faint plash of the oars failed to reach his ears, then treading softly he made his way over the rough slippery causeway along the base of the cliffs. At intervals he stopped to listen intently, but only the low rumble of the surf and the occasional call of a belated sea-bird broke the silence.

It required a considerable amount of nerve to ascend or descend Fishermen's Stairs, even in broad daylight. The darkness, doubtless, modified much of the forbidding appearance of the precipitous way, but on the other hand it seemed to hide many of the otherwise visible dangers.

Von Loringhoven counted the steps as he climbed. He knew the exact number, unless, since his last visit, a landslide had altered the natural features of the place. Once he muttered a curse as his feet slipped, yet, hardly deigning to make use of the rusty iron chain that served as a rough handrail, he gained the summit of the cliffs.

Perfectly aware of the regulations that no unauthorised person must use the cliff-path between sunset and sunrise, the ober-leutnant proceeded cautiously until he gained a narrow lane leading towards the little town. Here, throwing off his secretive manner, he started off at a brisk walk until he reached a row of semi-detached villas on fairly lofty ground overlooking the harbour.

Noisily opening the gate of one of the houses von Loringhoven strode up the path with deliberate footsteps. A timorous step would, he argued with himself, give rise to suspicion. At the front door he knocked loudly and waited.

Although the heavy dark curtains over the upstairs windows allowed no strong beam of light to penetrate von Loringhoven knew by the metallic click of a switch that the electric light had just been put on. Then came the shuffling noise of slippered feet descending the stairs and the unbolting of the door.

"Hullo, Tom!" exclaimed von Loringhoven, as the door was thrown open, revealing in the faint starlight the tall, burly figure of a man in a long dressing jacket.

"Hullo, James!" was the equally boisterous reply. "You're late. Missed the last train, eh? Come in."

These histrionic greetings completed, the occupier closed the door and switched on the light, and the ober-leutnant was ushered into a well-furnished room opening out of the hall.

"You risked it, then," remarked the ober-leutnant's companion, speaking in German. "I am not surprised, von Loringhoven. Karl told me.... Business brisk?"

Ernst von Gobendorff, German by birth and upbringing, but, unfortunately, Anglo-Saxon in appearance, was one of the vast Hun espionage organisation now admitted by the most sceptical to flourish on British soil. With Teutonic thoroughness, and hitherto without the crass blundering that has oft-times wrecked the deep-laid plans of kultur, von Gobendorff had gained a high position in the ranks of the Kaiser's emissaries in hostile lands. He, like many others, was paid by results, although he drew a small fixed salary from his Hunnish paymasters. For the last eighteen months Cornwall had been the scene of his labours, most of his work consisting of transmitting information of the movements of shipping to the U-boat commanders operating off the coast. He looked English; he spoke English with a faultless Midland accent; he had an English registration card, which, though easy to obtain, is generally sufficient to satisfy the curiosity of the average county policeman. Under the assumed name of Thomas Middlecrease, and posing as a commercial traveller to a London house, he "worked" the length and breadth of the Delectable Duchy with a zeal that was the envy and admiration of genuine Knights of the Road.

Von Gobendorff was not merely a spy: he was a desperado, whenever opportunity occurred, under the distinguished patronage of the German High Command. His system of communicating with Berlin was so skilfully manipulated that unless all telegraphic and mail dispatches between Great Britain and neutral countries were suspended, he could rely upon his reports reaching the Admiralty-strasse within forty-eight hours.

"Business," replied von Loringhoven, leaning back in a lounge chair and thrusting his feet close to an electric radiator—"business is as usual. And yours?"

"Rather slack of late," admitted von Gobendorff. "However, I am expecting a coup. How is your brother, the Zeppelin commander?"

The ober-leutnant shrugged his shoulders.

"Julius burnt his fingers when he kidnapped von Eitelwurmer by mistake," he replied. "You may hear of him again, as I believe there is to be another intensity on the part of our aerial cruisers. By the by, how is von Eitelwurmer?"

"Ask me another question, Otto," replied the spy. "All I know is that he's dead; an accident, according to a North Country paper. I did not think it prudent to make further inquiries."

"At any rate," remarked von Loringhoven, "he did something to the honour and glory of the Fatherland. But what is this coup to which you referred?"

"I hear on excellent authority that a train load of American troops—curse them!—leaves Trecurnow to-morrow; or rather, I should say, to-day," said von Gobendorff, glancing at the clock.

The ober-leutnant nodded thoughtfully.

"Fairly safe?" he queried. "Well, I'll ask no more questions on that subject. You must be tired, and to do one's work properly rest is essential. I'm going to be your guest, von Gobendorff, for just about twenty-four hours, but in the circumstances I will excuse your absence. By the by, you'll be returning about six, I hope? Dine with me at the Imperial Hotel. I suppose," he added reminiscently, "that the food is not quite so good nor so plentiful as when last I visited Cornwall?"

"There is a difference," replied von Gobendorff, "but nothing like to the extent we Germans hoped. This starving-out campaign seems to hang fire."

"Our U-boats will bring England to her knees yet," declared the ober-leutnant. "They say these English never know when they are beaten, but they'll find out soon."

"One might also say that they never know when they are winning," added the spy. "Much as I hate to have to say it I must admire the matter-of-fact way in which these English take ill-news."

"They get plenty of that," retorted von Loringhoven ironically. "Every week, and down go twenty merchant ships. How long can England stand that?"

"And how many of our unterseebooten vanish while doing the good work?" asked von Gobendorff. "I am afraid, von Loringhoven, that even you cannot answer the question. It is these Englanders' mule-headed contempt for frightfulness that is making Germany's task doubly—nay, trebly hard. But we must argue no longer, Otto," he added, seeing indications of a rising temper in his guest. "We'll go to bed. I will be off before you are up, so, until to-night at the Imperial Hotel, auf Wiedersehen."

CHAPTER IV

FOILED

ERNST VON GOBENDORFF was up betimes. A forty or fifty miles' railway journey was before him. Until he was within a short distance of Poldene Station he did not consider it prudent to assume his disguise.

He knew that the great Poldene Bridge was closely guarded both by land and water. To attempt to approach would be courting suspicion, even if he appeared in a military officer's uniform. He knew that he could board a "Service" train at Poldene, but here again the difficulty arose as to how he could obtain the privacy necessary for the ultimate attainment of his designs.

The spy alighted at a small station midway between the town and the bridge. He had had a first-class carriage to himself, and the fact that he had entered it as a well-groomed civilian and had left the train dressed in the uniform of a major of the Intelligence Staff passed unnoticed.

His next step was to make for an isolated cottage standing on high ground overlooking the river. Three small boys, sauntering along the leafy lane, turned and gazed at the khaki-clad man. It was mere curiosity. They would have stared at any stranger, whether in uniform or otherwise, but von Gobendorff's lowering brows betokened intense annoyance. It meant that he had to walk past his immediate objective and return when the youngsters were at a safe distance.

A little farther down the lane a middle-aged man in worn fustian clothes was ambling along. Seeing the supposed major approach the fellow stopped, and, pulling out a clasp knife, began to cut hazel switches from the hedge. By this time von Gobendorff was within ten paces of him, and the man resumed his walk with three wands in his hand.

Von Gobendorff seemingly paid little or no attention, but, shifting his suit-case from his right hand to his left, he struck his heel lightly with his malacca cane—thrice, in a most casual way.

"Have you been to the cottage, Herr von Gobendorff?" asked the man in German. "I had to go down to the river, but I hoped to be back before you arrived."

"It matters little," replied the spy. "Have you arranged about a dog?"

"A huge beast," was the reply. "Terrifying in appearance, but he's muzzled and chained."

"It is well," rejoined von Gobendorff. "Now listen carefully. I don't want this business bungled. You say you can get across to the signal-post without being seen from the signal-box, and you know what to do?"

"Yes," was the reply. "All that is necessary is to remove a bolt from the rod, and the signal-arm, being weighted, will rise to the danger position."

"Quite so," agreed von Gobendorff; "but the point is this: can you lower the arm again? The train must be delayed for not longer than five minutes—less if possible. I will place the explosive between the rails. It has a six-minute fuse, so there is little margin. I don't want to be blown up with a crowd of Englishmen."

"I understand," replied the other. "But will six minutes be enough?"

"Enough and no more," rejoined the spy. "The moment the down train crosses the bridge and gains the double-track the American troop train, which will have to wait for it, will start again. Once over the bridge it will not matter whether the engine is over the point of detonation, for the whole structure will collapse and the train with it. Now, fetch me the dog."

The huge St. Bernard showed neither enthusiasm nor mistrust at the sight of its new master. It suffered itself to be taken away on the lead, and, as previously related, the pseudo major and his canine companion contrived to board the guard's van of the Service down train to Trecurnow.

In spite of his steady nerves von Gobendorff's pulse quickened as the train came to a standstill on the centre of the lofty bridge. As he expected, the guard's attention was directed towards the signal set at danger. What was better still, the man alighted and walked along the permanent way.

The spy waited until he saw the guard returning. Five minutes had almost elapsed, but the signal had not dropped. Von Gobendorff was confronted by two alternatives: either to set the fuse in action and drop the explosive under the carriage before the guard returned, or else wait until the line was reported clear. He chose the former, relying implicitly upon his assistant's ability to lower the signal-arm.

Therein he made a grievous error, for the bolt, in being released from the operating rods of the signal, took it into its head to jerk itself out of the man's grasp, rolling down the embankment and choosing a secure retreat under the roots of a thick thorn-bush. The wrench which von Gobendorff's accomplice employed was too massive to be used as a temporary bolt, and in the absence of anything suitable it was impossible to pull down the arm to the safety position. The train beginning to move towards the fellow's scene of action warned him that it was unhealthy to linger longer, so taking to his heels he bolted.

Meanwhile the spy cautiously lowered the explosive out of the window, intending to swing it under the carriage, but forgetting that the dog's chain was padlocked round his own wrist von Gobendorff was unpleasantly surprised when the St. Bernard shook his massive head. The sudden jolt had the result of jerking the cord out of the spy's hand, and the leather case dropped upon the permanent way in full view of the occupants of the two adjoining carriages.

Von Gobendorff made no effort to retrieve his dangerous property. It was high time that he put a safe distance between him and the explosive, for the fuse had now been active for two minutes and the signal-arm still remained at danger.

Uttering maledictions upon himself for not having unlocked the dog's chain from his wrist the spy drew the key from his pocket. To his dismay the key failed to open the padlock, while an attempt to unfasten the rusty spring-hook that fastened the chain to the animal's collar was equally fruitless.

Once again the Teutonic love of detail had over-reached itself. Von Gobendorff had arranged everything to the minutest point, but there was a slight flaw in the operations and it led to failure.

Followed by the St. Bernard the spy leapt from the van and, taking advantage of the fact that the attention of the spectators at the window was centred upon the still obstinately fixed signal, was soon lost in the drifting mist that, fortunately for him, was rising over the eastern end of the bridge.

Knowing that there was a sentry posted on the embankment von Gobendorff advanced boldly, trusting to his disguise to enable him to pass. In this he was quite successful, for the man, on seeing the "Brass Hat" approach, stood still to the salute, the pseudo major returning the compliment in correct military style.

Once clear of the sentry von Gobendorff scrambled down the embankment and made towards the well-wooded country at high speed. With luck he hoped to cover half a mile before the expected explosion occurred; even then his margin of safety was perilously small.

Suddenly the deep boom of a heavy explosion rent the air. Instinctively the spy stopped and listened intently; but no crash of falling girders and masonry, nor the cries of hundreds of men hurtling to their doom, followed the initial roar.

Conscious of failure von Gobendorff broke into a string of oaths as he resumed his flight. The dog was beginning to become a hindrance, for hitherto it had followed well; but now it showed a strong disinclination to be urged at a rapid pace at the end of a chain.

Pulling out a revolver the spy eyed the animal with the intention of trusting to a bullet to sever the recalcitrant chain. At the sight of the weapon the St. Bernard's misgivings were roused, for with a deep growl the powerful brute backed, tugging viciously at the restraining links. Too late the spy thought of unbuckling the massive metal collar, for a warning growl from the muzzled brute let him know very effectively that the St. Bernard's motto was "Noli me tangere." One of the links snapped, and the dog sat down on its haunches while the spy retreated for several feet before subsiding upon the gnarled, and exposed root of a large tree.

Regaining his feet von Gobendorff took to his heels, wrapping the severed portion of the padlocked chain round his wrist as he ran. Before he had gone very far the St. Bernard came bounding to his side.

"Go back, you brute!" exclaimed the spy apprehensively. "Go home!"

Somewhat to his surprise the animal turned tail and ambled off. Just then came the sound of voices. Already his pursuers were on his trail.

Then the unpleasant thought occurred to him that perhaps the dog might be pressed into the service of the men on his track. He wished that he had risked the sound of a revolver shot and had put a bullet through the creature's brain. He had no love for man's best friend; in his youth he had been systematically cruel to animals, and the instinct still lingered. At the best he regarded a dog simply as a slave—an instrument: When no longer of use to him he would not have the slightest compunction in taking its life. It was only fear of discovery that stayed his hand.

Von Gobendorff was a fair athlete. He was especially good at long-distance running, and as he ran with his elbows pressed to his sides his footsteps made hardly any noise. He recognised the fact that it was necessary to avoid stepping on the dried twigs that lay athwart the path or to plunge recklessly through the brushwood.

Presently he came to a fairly wide brook. He hailed the sight with delight. For one thing the water would slake his thirst; for another he could throw the dog off the scent (supposing the animal turned against its temporary master) by wading up-stream.

Before he had waded ten yards he heard sounds of his pursuers coming straight ahead as well as on his left. It was an ominous sign, for they had evidently made their way through the wood on a broad front, and some had out-distanced the rest.

Ahead was a thick clump of willows, the thickly leafed branches trailing in the limpid water. For this cover the spy made, bending low to avoid the trailing boughs. Suddenly he stepped into a deep hole. Immersed to his neck he regained his footing; steadying himself against the force of the stream by grasping a bough.

{Illustration: "A COUPLE OF BLUEJACKETS BURST THROUGH THE UNDERGROWTH." [p. 53.}

Nearer and nearer came the sound of his pursuers' footsteps, till a couple of bluejackets burst through the undergrowth and pulled up on the bank within twenty feet of the fugitive.

"S'elp me!" exclaimed one, pointing straight in the direction of the immersed spy. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."

CHAPTER V

THE PURSUIT

"TALLY-HO!" shouted Sub-Lieutenant Farrar, as the party of bluejackets, headed by the four officers, raced along the permanent way, followed by a running fire of chaff and caustic comment from their envious fellow-passengers. It would have wanted but half a word from the gunnery-lieutenant to have emptied the train, for, with inexplicable intuition, every man knew that the fortunate party was in pursuit of some desperado who had done his level best to blow up the bridge.

"A sovereign for the man who captures the fellow," announced the gunnery-lieutenant; then, remembering that he had not so much as set eyes on a coin of that denomination for the last three years, he modified his offer. "Dash it all, a pound note I mean!"

The astonished sentry at the approach to the bridge could only volunteer the information that a Staff major, accompanied by a large dog, had passed by a short time before. Alarmed at the explosion the rest of the guard had turned out, and upon a description of the suspect being given, then they, too, joined in the pursuit.

"He's made for that wood for a dead cert., sir," remarked Holcombe, as a partial lifting of the mist revealed the nearmost trees of a dense plantation.

"More'n likely," agreed the gunnery-lieutenant. "Three of you men make your way round to the right, and three to the left. You'll be on the other side before we can push our way through. The others extend in open order, and keep your weather eye lifting."

"These trees could give shelter to a full company," observed Holcombe, as the two subs found themselves in the dense undergrowth. "There's one thing—that dog can't climb a tree."

"He'd probably cast off the tow-line and abandon the brute," said Farrar. "If I had the ordering of the business I'd make for the nearest telegraph office and wire instructions for every Brass Hat within ten miles to be arrested on suspicion."

"Just the sort of thing you would do, Slogger, my festive bird," replied Holcombe. "Imagine twenty or thirty Staff officers being laid by the heels until they could establish their identity."

"It would be drastic but efficacious," grunted Farrar, as he pushed aside a sapling that had just hit him in the face.

"Unless the fellow's shed his gorgeous khaki and red plumage," added his companion. "Look out! don't lose touch with those bluejackets on your right."

He indicated two able seamen who, country born and bred before they elected to serve His Majesty upon the high seas, were entering upon the pursuit with the eagerness of a couple of trained pointers; while the additional inducement of "arf a quid apiece"—they had struck a bargain to share the proceeds, if won—had whetted their zeal to the uttermost.

"We're on his track, sir," declared one of the men, stooping and picking up a polished bit of metal. "'E's dropped a link of that dawg's chain. An' see, sir, 'ere's footprints, quite new-like."

For fifty yards the marks of the fugitive's boots were followed. From the fact that they were the imprints of the toes only, it showed that the man had been running. Then the trail was lost on hard ground.

"We'll pick them up again up-along," declared the second bluejacket optimistically, as he gave a quick glance at the bark of every tree he passed to detect, if possible, the abrasions caused by the foot gear of a climbing man.

A thick clump of prickly undergrowth offered no serious obstacle to the two A.B.'s. Farrar and Holcombe thought better of it, considering the present-day prices of uniform, and made a detour. By the time they resumed their former direction the bluejackets were fifty yards ahead.

Presently the men came to a dead stop on the edge of a brook.

"S'elp me!" exclaimed one. "If that ain't just the bloomin' place for that cove to hide. Come on, mate, let's see what's doin'."

"Right-o," assented the other. "But look out for holes. There usually are some under willows such as that. Let's get up-stream a bit afore we cross. 'Tain't no use getting wet up to your neck when you need only wet your beetle-crushers."

Before these good intentions could be carried out the shrill blast of a whistle echoed through the wood, while the gunnery-lieutenant's voice gave the order, "Retire on your supports."

"Guess Gunnery Jack imagines we're on a bloomin' field day," grumbled one of the bluejackets, and, although he wistfully eyed the suspicious willow, he hastened to obey orders.

A petty officer hurried between the undergrowth, hot and panting with his exertions.

"He's collared," he announced. "They're bringing him to the guard-room up on the bridge."

"Who's the lucky blighter?" inquired one of the disappointed twain.

"Mike O' Milligan," was the reply. "He put the kybosh on the Tin Hat before he had time to look round."

"Then the spy is feeling sorry for himself," remarked Farrar, who had overheard the conversation. "O' Milligan is the champion heavyweight boxer of the old 'Tantalus,' and there are a few nimble lads with the gloves in our ship's company."

"The blighter gets no pity from me," declared Holcombe. "I remember a yarn my skipper told—— Hullo! here's the dog."

The St. Bernard, with a couple of feet of chain trailing from its collar, bolted straight up to the two subs. Giving Holcombe a preliminary sniff the animal turned its attention to Farrar, thrusting its muzzled head against his hands.

"The poor beast is horribly thirsty," he remarked. "I'll take his muzzle off."

"Better be careful," cautioned Holcombe. "Hanged if I'd like to feel those teeth."

"You see," rejoined Farrar, and bending over the animal he unloosened the tightly fitting strap that secured the muzzle.

The dog barked joyously and, wagging his tail, followed his benefactor to the stream, where it drank "enough water to float a t.b.d.," according to Holcombe.

Suddenly the dog stood with its body quivering with excitement and its eyes fixed upon some object on the opposite bank. Then it gave vent to a low, deep growl as the willow branches rustled audibly.

"What's up, old boy?" asked Farrar. "He's spotted something," he added, addressing his companion.

"A water rat, most likely," rejoined Holcombe casually. "Come on; if we want to see anything of the prisoner we'd better crowd on all sail."

"And the dog?"

"Bring him along, too; he's apparently taken a fancy to you, Slogger. Keep him as a mascot. We have a bulldog, a Persian kitten, and a mongoose already given us for the 'Antipas.' 'Sides, there's heaps of room on board your packet."

The St. Bernard offered no objection to the decision; in fact, he signified his approbation by means of a succession of deep-throated barks when Farrar called him to heel. Then as docilely as a pet lamb the newly acquired mascot followed the two subs out of the wood.

Already the captive had been carried to the guard-room. The gunnery-lieutenant and Engineer-Commander Curtis were within, while the bluejackets, drawn up a short distance from the entrance, were standing at ease.

"Well done, O' Milligan!" exclaimed Farrar, for the pugilistic A.B. was in the sub's watch-bill. "How did you manage to nab the fellow?"

"Sure, sorr," said the Irishman, "Oi saw him trapesin' along the path, so Oi goes up to him. 'Now, be jabbers,' sez Oi, 'are you for comin' aisy an' quiet, or am Oi to dot you one?' 'The divil!' sez he. 'Sure,' sez Oi. 'There's nothin' loike bein' straightforward. Between you an' me an' gatepost, the Huns an' the Ould Gintleman are loike Murphy's pigs you can't tell any difference.' Wid that he tries the high hand—sort o' 'Haw-haw, d'ye know who Oi am, my man?' As if by bein' consaited he hoped to get to wind'ard of Mike Milligan. 'Come on, you Hun,' sez Oi, an' makes to grab his arm. Arrah! He swore loike a haythen an' tried to break away, so Oi just hit 'im on the point of his chin an' down he wint."

"And he hasn't recovered yet, sir," added another bluejacket. "O' Milligan did his job properly."

At that moment the gunnery-lieutenant, accompanied by the engineer-commander and the sergeant of the guard, came out of the building.

"Party—'shun!" ordered the former. "By the right—double."

The engine was whistling peremptorily. Disregarding the eager inquiries of his brother officers in the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant ordered his men to board the train, which, during the pursuit of the miscreant, had moved on sufficiently to enable the American troop train to pass.

As Farrar and Holcombe, accompanied by the St. Bernard, were about to enter the carriage the gunnery-lieutenant called them aside.

"Don't say too much about the business," he cautioned them. "We've made a deuce of a blunder, and I expect there'll be a holy terror of a row up-topsides. The unlucky bounder laid out by one of the bluejackets was a genuine major; both the sergeant and the corporal of the guard were certain on that point. It is an unfortunate coincidence, and what is worse the fellow we went after has got away. Whether they catch him or not rests with the military and the civil police. We did what we could, and did it jolly badly."

"After all," remarked Farrar when the two chums were once more seated in the compartment, "my way, although drastic, would have been better than this fiasco; and I guess that poor blighter of a major would think so too if he had the choice between a punch on the jaw from a champion boxer or spending a couple of hours under escort with a dozen other Brass Hats to keep him company."

"It was a bit of excitement, if nothing else," said Holcombe.

"And I've found a jolly fine dog," added the R.N.V.R. sub, patting the huge animal's head. "I'll call him Bruno... and I don't think we'll need this again."

And he hurled the dog's muzzle out of the window.

CHAPTER VI

VON LORINGHOVEN LEARNS NEWS

AT a quarter to six Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven strolled into the lounge of the Imperial Hotel and, ringing for the waiter, booked two seats at a table for dinner. This done he carefully selected a choice cigar and ensconced himself in a large easy-chair. Ostensibly interested in the pages of a newspaper he was furtively taking stock of the other occupants of the lounge.

Von Loringhoven had had a really enjoyable day. He had done his level best to banish from his mind all thoughts of his dangerous and degraded profession. He appreciated the short respite from the mental and physical strain of commanding a U-boat. Until the evening he would take a well-earned holiday.

Accordingly he had made a few purchases in the little town of articles that were not readily obtainable by the simple expedient of looting a captured merchantman. Then, in possession of a small flask and a packet of sandwiches, he struck inland towards the wild and unfrequented moors.

Once or twice during the day he thought of von Gobendorff, and wondered whether his attempt had met with success. Not that he evinced any great concern over the business. The spy had not taken him into his confidence sufficiently to explain the details of his proposed attempt upon the troop train. There was once the haunting suspicion that should von Gobendorff be caught the consequences might be rather awkward for the ober-leutnant. Von Loringhoven had little faith in his fellow-countrymen; he would not be greatly surprised if the spy, in an endeavour to mitigate his deserved punishment, would give information to the British authorities to the effect that a German submarine commander was at large on Cornish soil.

Early in the afternoon von Loringhoven began to make his way back to the town. Taking a footpath he passed close to half a dozen German prisoners-of-war engaged in agricultural work.

In broken German he addressed one of them, inquiring whether the fellow would take the opportunity of escaping should such a chance occur. The broad-shouldered Bavarian shook his head emphatically. "No," he replied. "Why should I? We are well fed. After eighteen months on scanty rations in the hell of Ypres a man would be a fool to wish to go back over there."

The ober-leutnant resumed his walk, pondering over his compatriot's words. There were evidences in plenty that the German theory, that six months of unrestricted U-boat warfare would bring England to the verge of starvation, was very wide of the mark; and the prisoner's tacit assertion that he preferred to live and eat in England to fighting and semi-starvation for the sake of the Fatherland was striking evidence that the German submarine campaign was a failure in spite of its unprecedented savagery and frightfulness.

Before proceeding to the hotel von Loringhoven bought a paper. If he bought it with the idea of gleaning any important information he was grievously mistaken. The war news was confined to a few brief communiqués. The rest of the columns were taken up with local and county topics unconnected with the war, a number of advertisements, and a few carefully worded announcements of deaths in action of Cornishmen.

Long before the ober-leutnant had finished his cigar a fresh-complexioned, round-faced subaltern entered the room and, spotting a brother officer, began a conversation in tones loud enough to enable von Loringhoven to follow every word.

"I say," he remarked. "Have you heard anything about the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge?"

"My sergeant said something to me about it," replied the other. "I didn't pay much attention to him, as he's a regular old woman for getting hold of cock-and-bull yarns."

"It's right enough," persisted the first speaker. "There was an explosion while the Navy Special was hung up on the bridge. Signals tampered with, I understand. No damage done, but evidently the fellow or fellows on the job knew what they were about, for a troop train filled with Yankees was due to cross almost at the same time. It's a mystery to me how these Huns get to know of the movements of transport and troop trains. All the week American transports are to be diverted from Liverpool to Trecurnow, as those rotten U-boats have been reported in force off the Antrim coast."

After talking on several other subjects one of the subalterns inquired, "Heard anything of your young brother recently? Dick, I mean. He was in the 'Calyranda' when she struck a mine, I believe?"

"Yes, he's appointed to the 'Tantalus.' She's leaving Trecurnow on Thursday for Hampton Roads."

"Escorting duties?"

"On the return voyage—yes. Outward bound they're taking a number of big pots to attend an Allied conference at Washington, I understand. At any rate, young Dick has to get a new mess-jacket. Thought he'd be able to do without that luxury until after the war. ...Oh, by the way, here's news. I was lunching yesterday with my cousin—you know, the lieutenant-colonel who won the D.S.O.—and he happened to mention——"

Von Loringhoven listened intently, smiling grimly behind his newspaper. From the tittle-tattle of a raw subaltern he was gleaning more intelligence than he could from a dozen journals, for the youngster seemed to take a special delight in letting the other guests know that he was in close touch with the Powers that Be.

From time to time the ober-leutnant glanced at the clock. It was now twenty minutes to seven. Von Gobendorff was considerably overdue, and von Loringhoven was feeling hungry.

"My friend is apparently unable to be present," he said to the head waiter. "You can serve me now. I suppose as a dinner for two has been ordered I must pay for both?"

"That is the rule of the hotel, sir," replied the man.

"And in that case I presume I can have a double allowance?"

The waiter shook his head and winked solemnly.

"Can't be done, sir," he replied. "'Gainst regulations. You'll pay for two dinners, I admit, sir; that's your misfortune."

"Then I suppose the extra meal will be wasted?"

"A drop in the ocean of waste, sir, I assure you," said the man confidentially. "Tons of waste down this part of the country. Take petrol, for example. I've a motor-bike of my own and can't use it, although half a gallon of petrol a week would be as much as I want. And yet the coastguards, when hundreds of cans were washed ashore along the coast, were told to wrench off the brass caps of the tins—useful for munitions, I suppose, sir—and chuck petrol and cans back into the sea. And I paid my licence to the end of the year."

"Hard lines," remarked the ober-leutnant. "But the nation's at war, you know."

"Quite true, sir," replied the man. "I wouldn't mind making sacrifices if I knew all the petrol was going to naval and military use—tanks and patrol boats and the like—but waste like I've been telling you makes me a bit up the pole. Ah, sir, you needn't worry about that second dinner, for here's Mr. Middlecrease."

The waiter hurried off, while von Gobendorff, well-groomed and debonair, greeted the ober-leutnant.

"Sorry I'm so infernally late, Smith," he exclaimed. "Must blame the trains. Missed my connection at Okehampton, don't you know."

The two Germans sat down to their belated meal, talking the while on commonplace topics.

They certainly made a faux pas in the way they gulped down their soup, but the rest of the diners, although they exchanged sympathetic glances, had never had the misfortune to visit German "bads" in pre-war days; otherwise they might have "smelt a rat."

Von Loringhoven paid the bill and carefully placed the receipt in his pocket-book. "It will be a souvenir of a pleasant evening," he remarked to his companion. "A certificate to the effect that I have invaded England, hein?"

It was close on nine o'clock when von Loringhoven accompanied the spy to his home. Once in von Gobendorff's study, with a thick curtain drawn over the door, the latter unburdened himself.

"Ach!" he exclaimed, stretching his limbs and yawning prodigiously; "I have had a nasty time, Otto. Often I thought I would have to forego this pleasurable evening in exchange for a prison cell."

"You bungled, then?"

"Perhaps. It was hardly my fault. I am inclined to blame Schranz. I deposited the explosive all right, but the signal did not fall within the prearranged limit. Consequently I had either to make a bolt for safety or stay where I was and get blown up. I chose the first alternative."

"And the explosion?"

"It came off," replied the spy. "Somehow the bridge was not destroyed. Why I know not. Then I was hotly pursued. That fool of a dog—I had taken the precaution of having one sent from London—nearly put me away, but just as I had given myself up as lost the men in pursuit were recalled. Then at the first opportunity I discarded my disguise—I was wearing two suits of clothes: a good tip, Otto, unless you happen to be wearing a military or naval uniform under your civilian's dress. Himmel! it was decidedly unpleasant in those saturated clothes, for I had been standing up to my neck in water for nearly twenty minutes."

"It was a wonder that your wet clothes did not give you away," remarked von Loringhoven.

"They certainly gave me a cold," admitted the spy, suppressing a sneeze. "You should have seen me, Otto, stripped to the skin in a secluded hollow, and wringing out my garments one by one. It was a chilly business donning the damp things, but I walked briskly over the moors until the wind dried them to a state of comparative respectability. Then I struck the high road towards Poldene station. There were patrols and police out, but they never suspected me, as I was proceeding towards the scene of my frustrated attempt. And here I am. Well, have you picked up any information?"

The ober-leutnant shook his head. He was too wily a bird to impart an important piece of news even to a compatriot, so the matter of the date of departure of the "Tantalus" was withheld.

"No," he replied. "I have been having a rest, that is all. I go back to my work with renewed zest. I drink, von Gobendorff, to the confusion of England. Hoch, hoch, hoch!"

At half-past ten the ober-leutnant left the house, declining the spy's offer to accompany him part of the way. Without encountering a single person, for he knew the actual times at which the cliff patrol passed, he gained the little cove. By the luminous hands of his watch he had nearly an hour to wait, and waiting in the darkness, with only the sullen thresh of the surf and the eerie cries of innumerable seabirds to break the silence, was tedious, especially as he dared not smoke.

Presently, above the noise of nature's handiwork, came the bass hum of an aerial propeller. The ober-leutnant gazed upwards between the narrow walls of the rocky inlet.

"Too slow for a seaplane or a flying-boat," he muttered. "It must be one of those infernal coastal airships. Himmel! I hope she hasn't any suspicions of U 254 lying off the shore. I've waited quite long enough to my liking. Ach, there she is. I thought so."

At an altitude of less than two hundred feet above the summit of the cliffs the "Blimp" glided serenely, the suspended chassis being invisible against the greater bulk of the grey envelope that showed darkly against the starlit sky.

The airship was flying against the wind, and was proceeding at a rate not exceeding fifteen miles an hour "over the ground"—the ground in this instance being the sea. At that comparatively slow speed she appeared to the watcher in the depths of the cove to be almost stationary, and the sight filled him with misgivings.

Suddenly a searchlight flashed from the vigilant guardian of the coast, stabbing the darkness with a broad blade of silvery radiance. Instinctively von Loringhoven averted his face. He could see the grotesquely foreshortened shadow of himself cast upon the rocks. He wondered whether an alert observer had him "fixed" with his powerful night-glasses. He was afraid to move lest his action would satisfy any lurking doubt in the mind of the watchers above. Supposing the Blimp sent a signal to the nearest coastguard station, reporting a suspicious character in the cove?

All these thoughts flashed through the ober-leutnant's brain in less than twenty seconds. Then the penetrating beam swung like a giant pendulum, sweeping every square yard of sea within an arc of two miles' radius.

The ray ceased its movements and was directed upon a dark object lying at a distance of less than five cables' lengths from the shore. Von Loringhoven's breath came in short gasps. Momentarily he expected to see the flash of a gun or hear the sharp explosion of compressed air that would send an aerial torpedo on its death-dealing errand.

By degrees the ober-leutnant's eyes grew accustomed to the glare, and he made the discovery that the object was a two-masted fishingboat that, having been unable to reach harbour before "official sunset," was endeavouring to make port and risk divers pains and penalties for being under way during prohibited hours.

Down swept the airship, her searchlight relentlessly focussed upon the delinquent, until the officer in charge of the Blimp was able to discover the registered number of the boat and shout by means of a megaphone a promise that the master of the fishing-boat would be "hauled over the coals" at no very distant date.

This duty performed the airship rose and, turning, travelled "down wind" at high speed, whereat von Loringhoven heaved a deep sigh of genuine relief.

The hour of midnight passed and the ober-leutnant still waited. He was beginning to think that he was marooned on hostile ground and that the submarine had met with misfortune, when a dark shape glided round the rocks at the entrance to the cove.

"You are late!" exclaimed von Loringhoven hastily, as the coxswain of U 254's canvas boat brought the frail cockleshell alongside the rough jetty.

"It was a cursed English airship that detained us, Herr Kapitan," replied the man. "We had to submerge. We thought we were detected; only, it seems, it was a fishing craft that occupied the airship's attention."

Not another word did von Loringhoven speak until he gained the U-boat's deck.

"How stand the accumulators, Herr Kuhlberg; and what petrol have we on board?"

The unter-leutnant gave the required information.

"Just enough to take us home, Herr Kapitan," he added tentatively, for the prolonged cruise—already U 254's time limit was exceeded—was jarring his nerves very badly.

"Perhaps," rejoined von Loringhoven, with a sneer. "Meanwhile we are going to lie off the Scillies until the end of the week, so reconcile yourself to that, my friend."

"You have heard something, then, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant eagerly, his despondency departing at the prospect of doing a great deed—torpedoing a huge unarmed liner, perhaps.

"I have," replied von Loringhoven. "The English cruiser 'Tantalus' leaves Trecurnow on Thursday with a number of delegates for a conference at New York. The 'Tantalus' is, of course, armed, and, as you know, English gunners shoot straight. How does that suit you?"

Hans Kuhlberg's attempt to put a brave face upon the matter was a failure. His superior officer smiled disdainfully, for there was no love lost between the two.

"I am going to turn in now," he added. "You know the course; keep her at that until you sight Godrevy Light and then inform me."

CHAPTER VII

BRUNO'S ESCAPADE

AT eight o'clock on the following Thursday morning H.M.S. "Tantalus" cast off from her moorings in Trecurnow Roads and stood down Channel.

She was an armoured cruiser of an obsolescent type, and although not powerful enough to be of material use to the Grand Fleet, was admirably adapted to the work allotted to her—ocean patrolling and escorting transports to and from overseas. Since the outbreak of war her steaming mileage worked out at a little over 200,000 miles, or roughly eight times the circumference of the earth. During this stupendous task her engines had given hardly any trouble, and never once had had a serious breakdown—a feat that was rendered possible solely to the unremitting care and attention of her engineering officers and ratings. Sixteen years previously her contract speed was twenty-five knots; and when occasion required her "black squad" could whack her up to her original form.

On either side of the cruiser a long, lean destroyer kept station, for the "Tantalus" was to be escorted through the danger zone. Waspish little motor patrol boats, too, were dashing and circling around her, their task being to put the wind up any lurking U-boat that was bold enough to risk being rammed or blown up by depth charges by the attendant destroyers.

"Mornin', Slogger, old bird," exclaimed a voice. "Looking for your friend, Holcombe?"

Farrar, whose turn it was to be Duty Sub of the Watch, was levelling his glass at one of the destroyers. Upon hearing himself familiarly addressed—for the nickname of schooldays still stuck—he turned and placed the telescope under his arm.

"Mornin', Banger," he replied. "No; I knew it was no use looking for Holcombe on that packet. The 'Antipas' is of a later type; besides, she's not completed commissioning yet. How's that dog of mine behaving?"

Dick Sefton was another of the "Tantalus's" sub-lieutenants, a short and heavily built fellow whose full face was brimming over with good-humour. He was an R.N.R. man, called up for duty as a midshipman on the outbreak of hostilities. For some obscure reason his messmates had nicknamed him Banger, although there was a suspicion that those tinned delicacies, otherwise known as "Zeppelins in the Clouds," had something to do with it. Sefton had already had a fair share of adventure. He had been torpedoed twice—once in the AEgean Sea, and again somewhere within the Arctic Circle; he had been in a tough engagement between two armed merchantmen, and had taken part in a hand-to-hand struggle between the crews of a U-boat and a possible victim that proved to be a veritable Tartar. He had braved the rigours of two winters in the North Sea on Examination Service, and had spent four days without food and a very little water in an open boat under the blazing sun in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of hardships and perils his cherubic smile still clung to his homely features. Not a soul of the "Tantalus's" ship's company could truthfully say that he had seen Banger in a bad temper.

"Bruno is in great form, absolutely," replied Sefton. "During the absence of his worthy master, namely yourself, he has been improving his acquaintance with the rest of the mess—and their effects."

"Eh?" exclaimed Farrar. "Been in mischief?"

"The casualties to date are—killed: one pot of honey belonging to little Tinribs, two gramophone records, the property of the mess, and Johnson's pneumatic waistcoat; wounded: the messman and one of the marine servants while attempting to rescue the before-mentioned waistcoat under a heavy fire; missing: the contents of a tin of condensed milk and a plate of curried fowl. The messman and the marine contemplating reprisals, Bruno merely beat a strategic retreat to the padre's cabin. Latest reports state that the animal, possibly owing to a surfeit of condensed milk and curried fowl, combined with the unaccustomed motion of the ship, strongly resembles the present state of Russia; to wit, violent internal disorder. So, my festive Slogger, you'll have something to answer for."

"By Jove!" ejaculated Farrar. "I hope the padre won't complain to the commander. I can square the messman and make it all right with the rest of the mess, but the chaplain——"

"Plenty of time for that," resumed Sefton. "There are indications that the padre is in a state of siege. Bruno is lying on the floor of the cabin and against the door. The padre is sitting on his bunk and cuddling his knees. Every time he tries to get out Bruno growls, although I fancy that the animal's malady is responsible for that. The awkward part of the business is that the padre is mortally afraid of dogs. They are his pet antipathies. A yapping little terrier would give him cold feet, so you can imagine what effect Bruno would have on him."

"For goodness' sake, Banger, hike the animal out of it," replied Farrar. "I can't leave the deck, you know."

"I'll do my best," replied Sefton. "It is indeed fortunate that our Fleet Surgeon underwent a course in the Pasteur Institute. Do you happen to know whether a fat fellow is more susceptible to hydrophobia than a thin one? If so, I'll shunt Jenkyns on to the job."

Sefton departed upon his errand, while Farrar, wondering what the outcome of Bruno's escapade would be, made his way to the weather side of the navigation bridge.

The "Tantalus" was now well on her way down Channel. The Wolf Lighthouse, rising like a slender shaft from the sea, lay broad on the starboard beam. The motor patrol boats, having reached the limit of their station, were hoisting the affirmative pennant in answer to a signal for the cruiser to part company. From the as yet invisible Scillies another flotilla of patrol boats was approaching to take over escorting duties until the cruiser with her cargo of important civil personages was beyond the dangerous "chops of the Channel."

On board the "Tantalus" the utmost vigilance was maintained, the escorting destroyers notwithstanding. The six-inch and light quick-firers on the upper deck were manned ready to open fire at a moment's notice, should the sinister, pole-like periscopes of a U-boat show above the surface.

Every possible precaution had been taken to safeguard His Majesty's ship, and the party of civilians who, under Providence, were entrusted to the care of one of the units of the Great Silent Navy. The members of the deputation were standing on the after bridge, watching with absorbed interest the stately progress of a huge flying-boat that was making her way back to Trecurnow. Already that morning the sea had been explored for miles on either side of the cruiser's course, and the aerial scout had wirelessed to the effect that no hostile submarine had been sighted.

Within the microphone room on the fore bridge an alert petty officer stood with the receivers clipped to his ears, listening for any suspicious sound that might emanate from the churning of a U-boats propeller; but beyond the rhythmic purr of the engines of the two destroyers not a sound of machinery in motion in the vicinity of the cruiser was audible.

In less than ten minutes Sefton returned.

"A proper lash up, Slogger," he announced. "Bruno's gone and done it this time."

He paused to note the effect of his words.

"Out with it, man!" exclaimed Farrar. "Don't say he's put the padre out of action."

"He has," said Banger, with an extra special grin.

"Bitten him?"

"I don't think so," replied Sefton. "In default of definite evidence the answer is in the negative."

"Then what has the dog done?"

"Well, to express the matter in a delicate way," continued Sefton slowly and deliberately, "Bruno has been taken violently ill in the padre's sanctum."

"Did you hike him out?"

"Who—the padre or the dog?"

"Either—or both."

"Couldn't," was the exasperating reply.

"Why not, dash it all?"

"Simply because I wasn't equal to the job. Neither are all the marine servants nor the best part of the carpenter's crew. The Bloke's (commander) gone to inspect the place, so all the fat's in the fire."

"Is Bruno showing temper, then?" asked his master anxiously.

"No; he's as quiet as the proverbial lamb."

"Look here, Banger!" exclaimed Farrar. "Can't you pitch a straightforward yarn without my having to drag it all from you in bits?"

"All right," replied Sefton. "It's like this. By some means—possibly Bruno rubbed against the door—the door's bolted on the inside. The padre won't muster up courage to let himself out, and the mob outside can't get in. The carpenter's mate is going to take out the jalousie—and the door's made of steel, remember. I have an idea—— Hullo, here's the Owner. I'm off."

Catching sight of the oak-leaved cap as the captain ascended the starboard ladder, Sefton promptly dived down the ladder on the port side, while Farrar, smartly saluting, awaited the approach of the controller of the destinies of nine hundred officers and men forming the "Tantalus's" ship's company.

"Where's the officer of the watch, Mr. Farrar?" asked the skipper. "In the chartroom, eh? Very good, carry on. Inform Mr. Sitwell that a wireless has just come through from the Admiral, Trecurnow Base. The escorting destroyers are to return; we are to shape a course for Queenstown and await further orders. What are we making?"

"Eighteen knots, sir."

"Increase to twenty-two, then.... What's that—signalling?"

"Destroyers request permission to part company, sir."

"Hoist the affirmative. All right, Mr. Farrar. Keep me well posted should anything untoward occur."

The captain left the bridge and the sub communicated his instructions to the lieutenant on duty as Officer of the Watch.

"Jolly rummy," commented Mr. Sitwell. "Did the Owner look at all surprised?"

"Not so far as I could see," replied the sub.

"Then I expect the Commander-in-Chief has had warning that there's a swarm of U-boats off the Irish coast.... Starboard four, quartermaster."

The destroyers had flung about and were tearing off in the direction of Trecurnow Harbour; the Scilly patrol had been left astern, and the "Tantalus" was alone in the midst of a waste of white-topped waves. She was now beginning to follow a zigzag course—a precaution invariably taken when within the U-boat zone.

Nigel Farrar felt convinced that the captain was uneasy in his mind on the subject of the wireless orders. In view of the presence of diplomats and other Government Civil Officials on board, the peremptory removal of the destroyer escort seemed very bad policy. But the orders had been given in secret code, and had to be obeyed without demur.

"Now, then, old bird, foot it!" exclaimed Sefton, as he reappeared on the bridge. "Anything to report?"

Farrar glanced at his watch. To his surprise he found that the last hour had passed with great rapidity. His work was now at an end; his relief had arrived to take on the duties of Sub of the Watch, while the Officer of the Watch had also turned over his responsibilities to another lieutenant.

At the first opportunity the sub hastened to the half-deck, where, outside the padre's cabin, a number of perspiring men were still busily engaged in removing the steel lattice work, known as a jalousie, from that officer's cabin door. Standing in a semicircle around them were all the midshipmen not on duty, taking no pains to conceal their amusement at the naval instructor's discomfiture. On the fringe of the ring stood the commander and three or four other wardroom officers, the former eyeing with grim displeasure the disfigurement of this part of the "internal fittings" of one of His Majesty's cruisers.

Through the slits of the jalousie came sounds of the padre, breathing stertorously, and the deep snores of the dog, who, having "mustered his bag," was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.

"Can't you unbolt the infernal door, padre?" shouted the commander impatiently. He had asked the same question half a dozen times already, and the monotony of the request was beginning to jar the already overstrung nerves of the chaplain.

"Heaven forbid," he muttered. "My calling urges me to do the very opposite."

"It strikes me, sir," remarked the first lieutenant, addressing the commander, "that we have here an example of the lion and the lamb lying down together."

The pun—for the padre's name was Lamb—fell upon deaf ears as far as the commander was concerned, although the midshipmen smiled broadly at the popular Number One's wit.

"Look alive, there, men!" the commander exclaimed impatiently. "Don't waste the whole day getting that frame unstowed."

The carpenter's crew "bucked up" at these words. Truth to tell they had been proceeding leisurely at their work. The last bolt was removed and the jalousie fell away from the surrounding steel frame. One of the men, thrusting his arm through the aperture, shot back the catch of the door.

"Call the brute away, Mr. Farrar," said the commander.

Before the sub could approach the door to secure his troublesome pet, a violent concussion shook the ship from stem to stern. The electric lights on the half-deck went out, plunging the enclosed space into semi-darkness, while the sudden upheaval of some 14,000 tons of deadweight resulted in capsising almost every member of the party outside the padre's cabin.

"They've got us this time!" ejaculated the first lieutenant dispassionately.

And less than eight hundred yards away Ober-Leutnant Otto von Loringhoven was expressing similar views concerning the expected result of the impact of two Schwartz-Kopff torpedoes against the side of H.M.S. "Tantalus."

CHAPTER VIII

TORPEDOED

IT was some moments before Sub-Lieutenant Farrar realised the disconcerting fact that the cruiser had been torpedoed. He was dimly conscious of a rush of feet overhead and a confused scramble as his companions sorted themselves out in the dim atmosphere of the half-deck. He was aware that Bruno was licking his hand, and that holding on to the animal's collar was the padre—transformed into one of the coolest men of the crowd.

On the upper deck the quick-firers were barking angrily, the gun-layer letting rip at a dozen different purely imaginary objects that had resolved themselves into the periscopes of a swarm of U-boats. Barefooted seamen and booted marines were pouring through the hatchways—not under the blighting influence of panic, but rather with a desire to see what was going on.

Just as the sub gained the poop at the tail-end of a pack of wildly excited midshipmen a marine bugler sounded the "Still."

Not in vain had months of discipline been drilled into the crew of the "Tantalus." Every man stood rigidly at attention, the babel of voices ceased as if by magic, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the rapid crashes of the quick-firers, the hiss of escaping steam, and the inrush of water through the gaping hole in the ship's side fifteen feet below the waterline.

The "Tantalus" had received a mighty blow. Whether it were sufficient to sink her was yet to be determined. One torpedo had missed its mark, but the other had exploded in No. 1 stokehold on the starboard side, almost instantly flooding that compartment and killing most of the stokers on duty in that part of the ship.

For five long-drawn-out minutes the men stood motionless, while the captain, commander, and officer of the watch conferred and awaited reports. From the engine room came the information that the port engine was still intact, thanks to the longitudinal bulkhead. The starboard engines were almost useless, owing to the loss of pressure. In the flooded stokehold gallant volunteers were groping in the swirling water and risking death from the deadly fumes in an endeavour to rescue their luckless comrades.

The cruiser was heeling badly to starboard. Although her steering gear was unaffected she had begun to circle under the impulse of the port propeller; until steadied on her helm, she floundered through the water at the greatly reduced speed of five and a half knots.

"We'll save the old ship yet, I fancy," remarked the captain to the commander. "It will be best, I think, to muster all hands aft. Is steam available for the boat-hoists?"

"Yes, sir," replied the commander.

"Very good. It's well to know that in case we have to hoist out the boom-boats. Pass the word for the men to fall in."

The shrill trill of the bos'uns' mates' pipes and the hoarse orders, unintelligible to the civilian element on board, had the result of clearing the lower deck in a remarkably short space of time. Clad in a motley of garments the watch below surged through the doorways in the after-bulkhead of the battery, each man with his pneumatic life-saving collar and in many cases a small bundle containing his cherished possessions. A petty officer appeared with a Manx cat in his arms; a yeoman of signals with a parrot that persisted in screeching choice lower-deck epithets at a piebald monkey; a corporal of Red Marines was grasping a cage containing a couple of canaries; while it would be impossible to guess with any degree of accuracy how many men had pets securely hidden in their jumpers.

The ship had now slightly recovered her heel and evinced no tendency to capsize. A course was now being shaped for the North Cornish coast, in the hope that the vessel could be beached or, at least, anchored in shallow water. Very sluggishly she forged ahead, the bent plates in the vicinity of the hole made by the torpedo requiring a considerable amount of helm to counteract the inclination of the ship to turn to starboard.

The din of the quick-firers had died away. Cheerful optimists there were amongst the crew who felt certain that the U-boat had been properly strafed, but there was no evidence to confirm their belief. As a matter of precaution the guns were still manned, while the wireless, which had been temporarily deranged, was sending out appeals for aid.

The order was now given for the men to "stand easy." Pipes and cigarettes were lighted and conversation began, although curiously enough the present state of affairs was hardly discussed. The chief anxiety on the part of the ship's company appeared to be the possibility of having to "stand by" the vessel, or whether there would be general leave granted before the men returned to the depôt for commissioning another craft.

Parties were told off to go below and salve various articles. The paymaster was working heroically, directing the removal of the ship's ledgers, the men's "parchments "—the seaman's record during the course of his career afloat—and other documents. The "coin" also was brought on deck, buoyed lines being attached to the canvas bags, so that the money could be recovered should the "Tantalus" sink in comparatively shallow water. The Treasury notes were left severely alone, since others could be issued in lieu of the missing numbers.

Most of the ward-room and gun-room officers not actually on duty also went below, the former to their cabins and the latter to their "common room," in order to retrieve their small but personally valuable belongings. Amongst them went Farrar, with Bruno, not completely recovered from his indisposition, ambling in his wake.

At the foot of the ladder leading to the halfdeck the sub encountered the captain of marines, followed by two stalwart men carrying the ward-room gramophone.

"Hullo, Slogger!" exclaimed the captain. "Do you want to buy a clinking little motorbike? I've a beauty stowed away in the steerage flat. What offers for spot cash?"

"Half a crown!" offered the sub promptly.

"Make it four shillings and it's a deal," rejoined the marine officer laughingly. "Done. I'll write you out a receipt when we get ashore. By the by, Farrar, talk about devotion to duty under hazardous circumstances, one of those bright bounders (indicating the two marines who were just disappearing over the coaming of the hatchway) deserves the Iron Cross of the Nth Degree—and all on account of that ferocious beast of yours."

The captain patted Bruno's massive head, and whimsically eyed the sub.

"How was that?" asked Farrar, unable to restrain his curiosity.

"The door of the padre's cabin was open," continued the marine officer, "and on the floor was Private Puddicombe diligently carrying out pre-torpedoing instructions by mopping up the corticine, It seems to me that there'll be water enough and to spare in the Woolly Lamb's den before very long. Hullo! What's up now?"

The quick-firers were opening out again, the six-inchers punctuating the sharp detonations of the twelve-pounders.

Following the marine officer on deck Farrar was just in time to see the frothy wake of a torpedo that, missing the cruiser's port quarter by a few feet, was tearing at thirty knots, to break surface a couple of miles beyond its desired victim.

Eighteen hundred yards astern a terrific cauldron of foam marked the spot where a hostile periscope had been momentarily sighted. The U-boat had evidently seen that the cruiser was not hurrying to the bed of the Atlantic, and was doing her level best to hasten matters.

"Fritz is a bit of a sticker for once," remarked the engineer-lieutenant, catching sight of Farrar in the bustle and noise. "He usually makes himself very scarce after having got one home when there are quick-firers knocking about. How far is it to the nearest land, navigator?" he inquired of Buntline, one of the lieutenants who happened to be passing.

"A matter of two hundred fathoms under your feet, my lad," was the reply without a moment's hesitation.

"Not taking any," replied the engineer sub with a laugh. "And you'll find nobody asking for greengage jam."

A roar of laughter from the other officers greeted this sally as the discomfited lieutenant, unable to rap out a fitting repartee, vanished through the armoured door of the battery.

"What's the joke about greengage jam, Tommy?" asked Farrar.

"At tea last night," explained the engineer sub, "Old Frosty asked Buntline to pass the greengage jam. It is rather rough luck on Buntline that he's still a bit deaf after that little affair off Zeebrugge. At any rate he thought Frosty had said, 'I am an engaged man,' and proceeded to offer congrats to the fleet paymaster, who, as you know, is a 60 per cent. above proof St. Anthony. Bless my soul! What's that I hear? Only doing four knots now. Think we'll make land before dark?"

The "Tantalus" was slowly foundering. In spite of the continuous action of the powerful Downton pumps the water was gaining. The explosion had not only resulted in the flooding of No. 1 stokehold, but had started some of the plates in the for'ard bulkhead. The damaged metal wall had been shored up and a cofferdam of hammocks and other gear built up to strengthen the weak spot, but even then the precaution failed to do the work that was expected of it.

For four continuous hours the gramophone was grinding out its metallic notes under the indefatigable attentions of a private of marines, while the two corner men of the cruiser's minstrel troupe kept their messmates in roars of laughter. Even when confronted with the none too remote prospect of being "in the ditch" the imperturbable tars were in high spirits. The captain and officers let them "stand by," knowing that nothing more could be done to safeguard the ship, and confident that when the critical moment drew near the men would respond cheerfully and gallantly to the call of duty.

Presently a hoarse cheer came from the men on the fo'c'sle; the sound was caught up by their comrades aft as the welcome news was announced that the destroyers were approaching.

The destroyers were five in number. Four of them were of the E Class, while the fifth was one of the latest words in that type of marine architecture. Well clear of the others she was describing swift and erratic evolutions, for her look out had reported a periscope.

"The 'Antipas,'" ejaculated a gunner's mate upon the appearance of the swift, low-lying craft. "One of our mystery destroyers. It'll be all U P as far as Fritz is concerned if she gets a sniff in."

"And 'ere's a bloomin' Blimp buttin' in," added another petty officer, as the dull grey envelope of a coastal airship drew within range of vision. "She wants to chuck her weight about too, I guess. Wot price that strafed U-boat now?"

"We'll see something neat in a brace of shakes, chum," remarked the gunner's mate cheerfully. "They've started to dust the floor."

CHAPTER IX

THE SKIPPER OF THE "GUIDING STAR"

U 254 arrived at the position indicated by her kapitan-leutnant nearly forty-eight hours before H.M.S. "Tantalus" sailed from Trecurnow Roads. During the period of waiting for her anticipated victim the submarine remained almost inactive, although nearly a dozen merchantmen were sighted on the first day and fifteen on the second.

With more important ends in view von Loringhoven made no attempt to sink the vessels flying the red ensign, lest news of the U-boat's presence might be communicated to the naval authorities at Trecurnow.

There was one exception, however, and the ober-leutnant risked a torpedo on the chance of aiding rather than hazarding his piratical progress.

Just before sunset a steamer was reported about three miles to the sou'westward. Von Loringhoven, binoculars in hand, clambered upon the flat top of the conning-tower, and having searched the horizon with his glasses, focussed them upon the approaching vessel.

Satisfying himself that the tramp was alone, and noting the fact that she carried a puny gun mounted for'ard and perhaps one aft—although from the way the vessel was pointing it was impossible to verify the suggestion—von Loringhoven descended from his elevated position and shouted orders to the men on deck to go below.

"I am about to torpedo that ship, Kuhlberg," announced the ober-leutnant, after he had followed his men into the interior of the steel hull and had closed the watertight hatch in the conning-tower.

The unter-leutnant regarded his superior with undisguised surprise.

"Is it wise, Herr Kapitan?" he asked. "I thought you had decided not to trouble about any vessel until we have attacked the 'Tantalus'?"

"Do not question your commanding-officer's decisions," snapped von Loringhoven. "The vessel will be sunk without leaving a trace, and there will be few survivors. Those few I will make good use of during the next day or two."

"Gunfire, Herr Kapitan?"

Von Loringhoven turned away from his subordinate and jerked down one of the levers actuating the valves of the diving tanks. Hans Kuhlberg, thinking that the ober-leutnant had not heard the question, repeated it.

"Himmel!" growled von Loringhoven over his shoulder. "Where are your wits, Kuhlberg? That craft carries a gun; perhaps two. We could out-range her, of course, but then, there would be the delay before we sent her to the bottom."

The ober-leutnant did not think it worth while to mention that he had a wholesome respect for the comparatively short-range guns carried on tramps and drifters. Experience had taught him that lesson.

With the tips of her periscopes showing at intervals above the waves, U 254 manoeuvred until she was in a favourable position for firing a torpedo. At a distance of three hundred yards the chances of hitting the tramp were practically certain.

"Fire!" ordered the ober-leutnant.

The submarine tilted slightly as the powerful weapon left the starboard tube. Barely had the hiss of the compensating quantity of water rushing into the vacated tube ceased, when the dull roar of the exploding missile was borne to the ears of the piratical crew.

"Another cursed Englander gone," grunted von Loringhoven, as he ordered the ballast tanks to be blown.

Very cautiously, after a lapse of five minutes, the dealer of the recreant stroke poked her periscopes above water. As the ober-leutnant expected, the tramp was sinking rapidly. The force of the explosion, for the torpedo had struck her abreast of the engine room, had practically shattered the lightly built hull. Bow and stern were cocked high in the air, while amidships the frothy sea was pouring over the submerged deck.

One boat had already been lowered. Another had been swung out and the falls manned. The crew were waiting for something. Curious on that point, von Loringhoven peered intently through the eyepiece of the periscope. Presently he saw a man, waist deep in water, staggering aft, carrying the body of an insensible comrade on his back. So steep was the deck and so strong the swirling water that the devoted rescuer had all his work cut out to reach the boat, where willing hands relieved him of his burden.

The boat got away only just in time. Even as the lower blocks of the falls were disengaged, the doomed tramp slid beneath the waves, the davits just missing the laden boat's gunwale as the crew fended off with oars and boathooks.

Then in a smother of foam and a dense pall of smoke and steam the two boats were left tossing upon the waves, eighty miles from the nearest land, and without a friendly craft in sight.

The ober-leutnant deemed it quite safe to bring the U-boat to the surface. As soon as the submarine's deck was awash, von Loringhoven called away the guns' crews, and, followed by Kulhberg, he emerged from the conning-tower.

At the sight of the submarine bearing down upon the boats the survivors of the torpedoed tramp lay on their oars.

"What is the name of the ship we have sunk?" demanded von Loringhoven.

"The 'Guiding Star' of Newcastle, from Bahia to London with a general cargo," replied the master promptly.

"Where are your papers?"

"With the ship. We hadn't too much time," was the answer.

"Come alongside," was the ober-leutnant's next order.

The boats closed. The men had no option but to obey, but even the muzzles of the two quick-firers failed to terrorise them.

"You have had enough of the sea, captain," continued von Loringhoven mockingly.

"Not I," replied the master, a short, broad-shouldered man of about fifty, whose iron-grey hair contrasted vividly with his brick-red features, dark with hardly suppressed anger. "I'll put to sea again within twenty-four hours if my owners give me another ship. Next time I fall in with you I hope the boot will be on the other foot. It won't be my fault if it isn't."

The master of the "Guiding Star" had spoken his mind. It was indiscreet, and he knew it; but he came of a stubborn stock, that fears nothing either on land or sea.

"You amuse me, captain," said von Loringhoven, his thick lips curling ominously. "So much so that I want to have more of your company. Come on board."

The tough old skipper said a few hurried words to the mate, then, with an exhortation to his men to stick to it and keep together, he stepped out of the boat and gained the U-boat's deck.

"Take him below," curtly ordered the ober-leutnant, addressing two of his crew.

With folded arms von Loringhoven waited until the master of the "Guiding Star" was taken to a compartment in the after part of the submarine, and securely locked in. One of the two sailors returned and reported that the instructions had been carried out.

"You may go now," said the ober-leutnant to the crews of the boats.

The men pushed off and commenced rowing in the direction of the invisible land. The crew in one of the boats set to work to step the mast and set sail, calling to their companions in misfortune that they would take them in tow.

Von Loringhoven made his way to the navigation platform, where Kuhlberg was standing by the steering-wheel.

"Gunfire, Herr Kapitan?" asked the unter-leutnant.

"You have gunfire on the brain," replied the ober-leutnant. "We have made quite enough noise already. Order half speed ahead and port your helm."

The U-boat swung round, gradually increasing her way until her bows pointed towards the two boats.

"Steady on your helm," ordered von Loringhoven. "At that.... Full speed ahead!"

At fifteen knots the blunt bows of the modern pirate crashed into the foremost boat, rending the elm planking like matchboard. A few of the men who escaped being crushed by the enormous bulk of the murderous craft were left struggling in the water. Of these only one wore a lifebelt. Von Loringhoven had not noticed it when the boat was alongside. He signed to a petty officer standing aft. The Hun drew a revolver and, as the lifebelted seaman swept past, shot him through the head with as little compunction as a gamekeeper would have at killing a stoat or a weasel.

The rest of the survivors, finding themselves in the U-boat's wake, struck out for the remaining boat. It was an unavailing struggle for life, for, turning again, U 254 charged down upon the second of the "Guiding Star's" boats and the tragedy was re-enacted.

"Enough!" ordered the ober-leutnant, scanning the horizon, over which the shadow of night was rapidly drawing. "With the sea at this low temperature a man cannot last more than ten minutes."

It was about noon on the following day, when U 254 was gently forging ahead at seventy feet beneath the surface, von Loringhoven ordered the skipper of the "Guiding Star" to be brought to his cabin.

"Well, captain," began the ober-leutnant with a burst of assumed affability. "I am sorry that I was compelled to detain you. On the other hand we did all we could to assist your crew on their long voyage."

The skipper made no audible comment. If von Loringhoven imagined that he was ignorant of the cold-blooded tragedy he was grievously mistaken. The master of the tramp had heard the double crash as the U-boat collided with the two boats, and had formed his own conclusions—which happened to be perfectly correct.

"I must explain my reasons for receiving you as a guest," continued von Loringhoven. "We are now bound for Wilhelmshaven by the shortest route, which, as you know, is through the Straits of Dover. As I am under the impression that you were furnished with Admiralty directions concerning the course through the mine-fields you will be most useful to us as a pilot. I am certain that you would not throw away your life by withholding your assistance."

The skipper of the "Guiding Star" looked the Hun straight in the face.

"If that's what you've made me a prisoner for you might have spared yourself the trouble," he said pointedly. "As for the mine-fields, you'll fetch up against them right enough if you aren't sent to Davy Jones by the latest anti-U-boat appliance, which ought to be in full working order by now."

"What appliance is that?" demanded von Loringhoven uneasily.

"I can understand your anxiety, but I won't enlighten you further on the matter," replied the master of the "Guiding Star."

The ober-leutnant literally snarled. He was baulked, and he knew it. He had made the mistake of gauging the British merchant skipper's calibre with that of the Hun.

"You'll feel sorry for yourself, Englishman, when we arrive at Wilhelmshaven," he said.

"Which will be never," rejoined the prisoner. "You'll be trapped, whether you make up-channel or try to dodge round the Orkneys."

"And I need hardly remind you," continued von Loringhoven, "that if anything befalls this vessel you will most certainly perish."

"I am not afraid to die," announced the master in a tone that carried conviction. "My only regret is that I may have to put up with a crowd of skulking German pirates for messmates in Davy Jones's locker."

With an oath von Loringhoven levelled an automatic pistol at the old man's head. Only the pressure of a few ounces upon the sensitive hair-trigger stood between the tramp's skipper and death. Not a muscle of his features moved as he calmly eyed the muzzle of the powerful weapon and the sardonic face of the pirate behind it.

Again von Loringhoven had made an error. He had failed entirely to intimidate or terrorise his helpless captive, and he was now on the horns of a dilemma. He did not want to shoot: it would come in handy to have a hostage should he find himself in a tight corner; on the other hand, once having levelled the pistol he could not without loss of dignity put the weapon down.

"I give you twenty seconds to agree to my proposal," he said.

"You mentioned a good many proposals," replied the skipper of the "Guiding Star" sarcastically. "Which one do you mean?"

"To give us the British Admiralty sailing course."

"I'll see you to Hades first!" declared the prisoner.

Von Loringhoven began to count—slowly, in the hope that the Englishman's spirit would be broken under the prolonged mental strain.

Suddenly there was a peremptory knock at the cabin door, and in answer to an invitation to enter a petty officer appeared.

"Your pardon, Herr Kapitan, but Unter-Leutnant Kuhlberg ordered me to inform you that the English cruiser is in sight."

"Very good," replied the ober-leutnant. "Tell a couple of hands to lock this schweinhund in the empty store-room."

He waited until the prisoner had been removed, then snatching up his binoculars he hastened to bring the submarine awash. Five miles away was a large, grey four-funnelled cruiser. She had just altered helm on a zig-zag course, and her new direction, if maintained, would bring her within torpedo range of U 254.

"That is the 'Tantalus,'" declared the ober-leutnant. "Diving stations, there; launch home in both bow and broadside tubes. We'll have her right enough."

CHAPTER X

THE BLIMP TO THE RESCUE

"YOU'RE wanted on the 'phone, sir. Senior Officer Trecurnow Base is speaking."

Flight-Lieutenant Barcroft, V.C., was coming away from the airship sheds when a petty officer brought the urgent message that Sir George Maynebrace wanted him on the telephone.

The lieutenant was acting-commander of a "wing" of coastal airships stationed at Toldrundra Cove, within ten miles of Trecurnow Base. During the last few days "business" had been slack. Regularly the Blimps flew over their allotted patrolling districts without sighting a single one of the Kaiser's underwater boats. It looked as if the German submarine had given up the chops of the Channel as a bad job.

It was a great blow to Billy Barcroft when, consequent upon injuries received in a seaplane raid, the Medical Board refused to allow him to fly again in a machine heavier than air. As a partial compensation he was appointed to the airship branch, which, although lacking the opportunities of raiding, was not devoid of excitement and danger.

144A, the Blimp in which Barcroft had just completed the morning flight, consisted of a cigar-shaped envelope one hundred and twenty feet in length, and with an extreme girth of ninety feet. Suspended from the envelope by a ramification of light but enormously strong wire cables was a four-seated fuselage, similar to, but on a slightly larger scale than, the bodies of the battle-seaplanes. Fore and aft was mounted a machine-gun, while projecting through the floor of the fuselage was a complicated arrangement that at first sight looked like three drain-pipes with mushroom heads and a small crowd of "gadgets" thrown in. This was the aerial torpedo projector, a highly perfected apparatus capable of hurling its sinister missiles with uncanny accuracy. The 'midship section of the fuselage was taken up by the propelling machinery—a petrol motor coupled direct to the shafting of a huge aerial propeller.

Aft was the wireless installation, the petty officer occupying the dual rôle of machine-gunner and telegraphist. Underneath the chassis were the emergency water ballast tanks, but for normal alterations of altitude the Blimp depended upon her elevating rudders and also upon the reduction or addition of gas in the envelope—the reserve of hydrogen being kept under pressure in strong metal cylinders.

Hastening to the air-station office Barcroft entered the telephone cabinet and picked up the receiver.

"Yes, sir; Barcroft," he replied in answer to the senior officer's inquiry.

"Look here, Barcroft," resumed Sir George. "'Tantalus' has been submarined. She's still afloat. Her reported position is—— Got that down? Good. There's something very fishy about the business. The escorting destroyers had just returned under wireless orders from goodness only knows who. I am sending 'Antipas' and other destroyers to 'Tantalus's' assistance. I want a coastal airship to be on the spot with the utmost dispatch."

"Very good, sir," rejoined the flight-lieutenant.

"And," added Sir George Maynebrace drily, "I might add for your information that there are no British submarines operating within fifty miles of the given position. Good luck, Mr. Barcroft. Ring off."

Replacing the receiver Barcroft doubled back towards the sheds, adjusting his leather flying helmet as he ran. Half way across the large open space he encountered Kirkwood, the O.C. of Coastal Airship No. 144B, which was undergoing slight adjustments.

"Hullo, Bobby!" exclaimed Barcroft. "You're just the bounder I wanted. Look here, my sub's crocked—sprained his wrist. I had to push him into sick quarters not ten minutes ago."

"You want to pinch my sub, then, Billy?" asked Kirkwood with a smile.

"No," was the reply. "It's you I'm after, old man. The 'Tantalus' has been torpedoed, and I'm off to see what's to be done."

"Good enough!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "I'm ready. Grub on board, I hope?"

"Enough for a month on the Rhondda scale," replied Barcroft. "At any rate, there'll be sufficient even for your huge appetite.... Messenger!"

"Sir?"

"Rout out Anderson and Bell. Tell them we must get under way in five minutes."

Quickly the preparations for the urgent flight were completed. Squads of mechanics set to work, each man knowing exactly what was required of him, and doing it expeditiously and without undue noise. The petrol tank was filled by means of hose pipes communicating with the distant fuel reservoir, hydrogen was pumped into the pressure cylinders and thence into the envelope, until the manometer registered the requisite lifting power. Machine-gun ammunition was already on board, but the deadly aerial torpedoes, risky missiles to handle even with the safety caps in position over the sensitive detonating mechanism, had to be brought from a store at some distance from the sheds.

While this work was in progress, Barcroft and Kirkwood were busily engaged in testing controls and supervising the work of the mechanics. Long experience had taught them that "if you want a thing to be well done, you must do it yourself"; failing that, the next best course is personally to overlook the job.

Presently the two remaining members of the Blimp's complement hurried up. It occasioned them no surprise to be turned out almost as soon as one cruise had been completed. The airship patrol was much like the lifeboat service or a fire-brigade in the metropolis: its work was never ended. Beyond the ordinary routine there were emergency calls at any hour of the day or night.

"All ready?" asked the lieutenant.

He raised his hand. The motor began to purr, the swiftly revolving propeller churning up a cloud of dust that speedily rose as high as the recently vacated shed. The assistants, holding on to the restraining ropes, awaited the signal.

Barcroft lowered his hand smartly. With a motion not unlike that of a lift suddenly starting to ascend, the Blimp shot vertically upwards, the drag of her propeller being just sufficient to counteract the light head wind.

Not until the altitude gauge registered two hundred feet did the airship begin to forge ahead. Gradually the motor controls were opened out until the din of the whirling propeller grew terrific. At fifty miles an hour, and with the huge gasbag quivering under the enormous wind pressure, the Blimp tore to the aid of the torpedoed cruiser.

Kirkwood, who was searching the vast expanse of sea with his binoculars, raised the voice-tube to his lips.

"Say, old man," he exclaimed. "The destroyers have nearly twenty miles' start of us. I can spot them."

"The 'Antipas' is out," remarked Barcroft with a chuckle. "Won't old Tressidar be in a tear if we beat her! We'll try it, anyway."

Anderson and Bell, although ignorant of the precise nature of No. 144A's mission, were keenly on the alert. No doubt, in that mysterious way that supposedly secret information spreads with incomprehensible rapidity, the news of the torpedoing of the "Tantalus" was common property in and around Trecurnow; but beyond giving Kirkwood a brief account of what had occurred, Barcroft had refrained from mentioning the matter to any one at the airship station.

Twenty minutes after leaving terra firma the Blimp had left Land's End on her starboard quarter. Just within the western horizon could be discerned the cluster of small islands and rocks comprising the Scillies. North and south wisps of smoke gave evidence that, U-boats notwithstanding, the British mercantile marine was still unperturbed, for liners and tramps were to be seen either making for or leaving the Bristol Channel and English Channel ports.

"Are we gaining, do you think?" inquired Barcroft.

"Don't know, Billy, my festive," replied his second-in-command. "We seem to be overhauling the four older destroyers, but the 'Antipas' is a slipper. It's this head wind that's doing us in the eye."

The Blimp had struck a "rough patch." Tricky air currents, requiring all Barcroft's skill to counteract, made her plunge and yaw in a most erratic manner. At one moment the fuselage would be shooting ahead in practically a straight line, while overhead the gas envelope would be swaying from side to side like an ungainly pendulum; at another, the suspended car would be rearing and plunging like a dinghy rowed against short, steep seas; the while the breeze was whistling through the network of tensioned wires, the shrieking of the wind being audible even above the bass hum of the propeller and the noisy pulsations of the open exhaust.

Five hundred feet below the sea looked as calm as a mill-pond. Away to the west'ard patches of fog rendered observation a spasmodic business. Occasionally the horizon would be clearly visible, while a few minutes later a bank of thin vapour would form and blot out everything beneath it.

"There's the 'Tantalus'—a couple of points on our port bow!" exclaimed Kirkwood. "She's still afloat, then.... By Jove! She has a list."

Barcroft gave the Blimp the necessary amount of helm to bring her nose pointing directly for the painfully crawling cruiser.

"She's got it properly in the neck," he admitted. "We're gaining a bit, I think (his anxiety to beat 'Antipas' was almost an obsession). I can fancy Old Tress jumping about on the bridge like a cat on hot bricks, and working the engine-room johnnies like billy-ho."

"The wind's dropping; that's why we're gaining," said Kirkwood. "It's petrol motor versus turbine now, and let the best craft win. ...Hullo! the cruiser's opened fire again. Billy, my lad, we look like strafing that U-boat. Fritz is getting much too rash: he wants correcting."

"Stand by!" ordered Barcroft, addressing the aerial torpedo man through the voice-tube.

"Ay, ay, sir!" replied Anderson confidently. Then, bringing the tube into the nearest possible position to the horizontal, he carefully placed a sixty-pound missile into the breech, trained the weapon downwards, and stood by with his hand resting lightly upon the firing lever.

"All correct, sir," he reported.

Maintaining her former altitude the Blimp passed immediately above the badly listing "Tantalus," the crew of which raised a mighty cheer. The faint echoes of the true British greeting were wafted to the airship like a gentle murmur, in spite of the noise of the motor. Barcroft acknowledged the cheering with a wave of his hand, then, knitting his brows and compressing his lips, he centred all his attention upon the grim work that was about to be done.

Presently his eyes glittered with the light of battle, Three miles astern of the cruiser, and almost in the frothy wake of her labouring propeller, could be discerned an elongated, shadowy form, showing faintly against the greenish grey expanse of water. It was the U-boat running under the surface.

"Confound it!" ejaculated the lieutenant, as a dark grey swiftly moving vessel zig-zagged towards the spot where the U-boat's periscopes were last seen. "The old 'Antipas' is going to spoil my game."

A violent upheaval of foam, followed by a muffled detonation, announced that the destroyer had exploded a depth charge.

"You'll have to be a jolly sight more careful, Tressidar, old boy," soliloquised Barcroft. "You'll be blowing up the stern of your old hooker if you don't mind.... Ah! I thought so. You've missed your bird this time. Now, for goodness' sake fade away and let me have a look in."

"How's that?" morsed the wireless, as the operator of the "Antipas" sought advice and guidance from the Blimp.

"Missed!" replied the airship's wireless laconically. "If you can't do better than that, push off. You're in our light."

Ronald Tressidar, lieutenant-commander of the "Antipas," was nothing if not a sportsman. First upon the scene he had done his level best to send the U-boat to Davy Jones; failing at the first attempt, and not knowing the direction taken by the submerged pirate, he was not one to fail to recognise that the Blimp was better adapted to the task than the destroyer.

"Good luck!" flashed the aerial message from the "Antipas," as she steadied her helm and dashed away from the scene of her futile efforts.

The dark shadow was twisting and turning. The U-boat had dived so deeply that, viewed from the airship, she could hardly be distinguished from the water. It was enough for Barcroft: once on the trail it was a rare occurrence for him to be put off the scent when it came to Fritz hunting.

"Set to twenty fathoms!" he ordered.

"Twenty fathoms, sir!" replied Anderson, as he manipulated the fuse-timing that would allow the aerial torpedo to sink to the stated depth before detonating.

In his former seaplane career Barcroft had bombed his various objectives with uncanny precision. Good luck and sound judgment combined to make him a past master in the art of "getting there." But in aerial torpedo work against a submerged object a new factor had arisen—the effect of refraction. Unless a bomb-dropping machine—be it airship or seaplane—is directly over its objective, due allowance must be made for the deceptive qualities of air and water in conjunction. A simple experiment will easily show this. Take a bowl of water and place in it an object heavier than water—for example, a penny. Stand immediately over the bowl, and with a long rod attempt to "spear" the coin. Unless one's hand be wobbly the task will be easy enough. Next, take up a position so that an imaginary line from the eye to the penny forms an angle of about forty-five degrees with the horizontal. Repeat the thrusting operation and the coin will be missed handsomely, while the rod will appear to be sharply bent from the point where it enters the water.

Down to two hundred feet dropped the Blimp. The loss of altitude diminished the visibility of the presence of her prey, but there was just enough indication of the presence of the submerged submarine to enable Barcroft to risk a shot.

The motor was throttled down. Flying slowly and almost dead in the eye of the wind the airship was keeping pace with her blinded antagonist. It was like a keen-eyed hawk hovering over a stream and waiting to pounce upon an all unsuspecting fish.

Leaning over the side of the fuselage, Barcroft awaited the crucial moment. Then he raised his hand in a peremptory and unmistakable manner.

Instantly Anderson thrust down the firing lever. With a hiss of compressed air being released the powerful missile sped on its way, its course being clearly visible to the watchers from above.

A slight splash marked the torpedo's impact with the surface of the sea. Then, after a seemingly interminable wait, a dome-shaped mass of water was lifted bodily upwards, breaking and falling back in a smother of foam.

"Bon voyage, Fritz!" exclaimed Kirkwood.

CHAPTER XI

THE STRAFING OF U 254

"BOTH bow tubes—fire!"

Von Loringhoven's voice, pitched in a low guttural key, rose through the space of two words to an excitable crescendo. At last was the hour of his triumph; In spite of his ferocious zest at torpedoing helpless merchantmen, he realised in his inmost mind that it was but a sorry business; but now he had dared to torpedo a British cruiser—and had achieved his object.

Almost before U 254 recovered from the displacement of trim as the weapons left their tubes a muffled sound greeted the straining ears of the Huns.

"Only one, Herr Kapitan," exclaimed Unter-Leutnant Kuhlberg after a pause. "The other has missed."

"One will be enough," rejoined von Loringhoven. "Port your helm, quartermaster.... At that."

Blindly, and at a depth of thirty metres, the U-boat forged ahead. The ober-leutnant dared not risk rising, even for a momentary glimpse through the periscope, for the sharp crash of the cruiser's quick-firers told him that the "Tantalus," though sorely stricken, could still bite—and bite hard.

Not until the U-boat was two miles on the British vessel's port quarter did von Loringhoven bring her to the surface.

"They're firing at a piece of wreckage—what good fortune for us!" he exclaimed aloud without addressing his remark to any one. "Himmel! she has received her death-blow."

One by one the crew were permitted to take a peep at the hated English ship as she lay with a distinct list to starboard. Clouds of smoke and steam enveloped her for'ard portion, the wind driving the vapour in front of the slowly moving craft.

"She seems in no hurry, Herr Kapitan," the unter-leutnant ventured to remark. "They are not even hoisting out the boom-boats, although they have swung out the boats in davits."

"If they do not abandon ship very soon they'll have to swim for it," said von Loringhoven. "No sign of any of those cursed destroyers?"

Hans Kuhlberg revolved the eyepiece of the periscope and made a clear sweep of the horizon.

"None, Herr Kapitan," he replied.

Von Loringhoven nodded his satisfaction at the intelligence. He had resigned the periscope to the unter-leutnant and was engaged in fitting a new roll of films to his camera with the idea of taking a series of snapshots of the "Tantalus" in her last throes.

"That's all ready," he remarked, as he snapped to the back of the camera and wound the first film into position. "Isn't it about time we broke surface? How goes the cruiser?"

"She does not appear to be going at all in the direction we want her to, Herr Kapitan," answered the unter-leutnant, after a prolonged look through the periscope, "If anything she is about the same, sinking no deeper in the water. She is steaming ahead."

"Gott in himmel!" exclaimed von Loringhoven furiously, laying aside the camera and pushing his subordinate away from the object-bowl of the periscope. "Must we do our work all over again? Torpedo-room there!" he shouted through the voice-tube. "Launch home both tubes. Set the torpedoes to run at three metres this time.... Stand by."

Taking a compass bearing of the cruiser and ordinating her rate through the water, von Loringhoven gave orders for U 254 to dive to ten metres. Then, running at ten knots, in order to make the surface wake as inconspicuous as possible, he manoeuvred for a chance to deliver another blow.

It was a tedious, nerve-racking business. When at the end of an hour's cautious stalking the U-boat poked the tips of her periscopes above the surface their appearance was greeted with a hot fire from the alert gun-layers of the "Tantalus."

Von Loringhoven shuddered with apprehension as he feverishly tilted the diving rudders.

Not until the submarine was deep down did he heave a sigh of relief. Yet with dogged determination he resolved to make another attempt to give his foe the coup de grâce.

An hour and twenty minutes later U 254 prepared for another torpedo attack, but upon her periscopes breaking surface the ober-leutnant made the disconcerting discovery that a bank of sea-fog had swept down. The laboured churning of the cruiser's propeller could be faintly heard, but whether she was half a mile away or thrice that distance he had no means of ascertaining.

"Stand here, Herr Kuhlberg," was von Loringhoven's order as he stepped aside from the periscope. "My eyes are strained with peering into the object bowl. Report directly you see anything."

"It is clearing somewhat, Herr Kapitan," announced the unter-leutnant after a space of ten minutes. "I can just make out the cruiser. ...Ach! Donnerwetter! The English patrol boats. One is almost on us."

With an oath von Loringhoven shouted for the hydroplanes to be depressed, and for full speed ahead. Under the enormous resistance of the diving rudders the U-boat flung her stern clear of the water as she sought the depths. At a steeper angle than she had ever done before she sank, throbbing under the pulsations of her powerful electric motors.

Suddenly an appalling roar seemed to come from somewhere in close proximity to the hull. Caught by a tremendous swirl of displaced water, the submarine swung round like a straw in the grip of a foaming torrent. Many of the crew were hurled to the deck-plates, while von Loringhoven and the unter-leutnant saved themselves from being precipitated through the opening in the floor of the conning tower by ignominiously embracing the shaft of the periscope. With the concussion every light went out, the fuses being blown by the terrific shock.

Gasping in momentary expectation of finding themselves overwhelmed by an inrush of water the two officers could do nothing but cling tenaciously to their support, while from the terrified crew came a babel of shouts, oaths, and shrieks of dismay and despair.

Hans Kuhlberg was the first to recover to a certain extent from his state of panic.

"We are still alive, Herr Kapitan," he exclaimed, in a broken high-pitched voice.

"For how long?" added von Loringhoven.

"This darkness!... Are the motors still running?... Are we rising or sinking until the hull plates crack like an egg-shell under the exterior pressure? Himmel! Tell me that."

"The chlorine fumes!" exclaimed Kuhlberg, relapsing into his state of blind panic. "We will be stifled like——"

"Hold your idiotic tongue!" hissed the ober-leutnant. "Where is the torch?"

He was groping for a pocket electric lamp that was usually kept on a bracket on the wall of the conning tower. It was no longer there. So great had been the submarine's dip that the torch had fallen on the floor of the armoured box.

"Here it is, Herr Kapitan," said the unter-leutnant. "Ach! What a comfort is this light!"

"Silence below there!" ordered von Loringhoven, shouting to the still frantic crew. "You are making as much noise as frauen clamouring for meat rations. The worst of the danger is past if you will only keep your heads cool."

A glance at the depth gauge showed him that the U-boat was down to seventy-five metres—almost the maximum depth at which the hull was capable of withstanding the enormous pressure of water. A wrench at the diving-plane levers counteracted the tendency to dive deeper, and the submarine rose until she was within forty metres of the surface.

The motors were still running, but far from smoothly. The engine room was a blaze of blue light as the current short-circuited at half a dozen different points. It was indeed an inexplicable problem why the heavily charged air did not explode and complete the catastrophe.

"Both glands in the propeller shafting are leaking badly, Herr Kapitan," reported a mechanic.

"It cannot be helped," rejoined von Loringhoven. "At the depth we have just been, and with the shaking we have experienced, it is a marvel that things are no worse. All joints are sound?"

"No, Herr Kapitan; there is a steady trickle over the motors. It is that which accounts for the sparking across. Miller is taking steps to prevent the water spouting upon the dynamos."

The ober-leutnant flashed his torch upon the binnacle. The compass was useless. The concussion had cracked the thick plate glass and jerked the bowl completely off the gimbals. Nor was the gyro-compass in any better state. For purposes of direction the submarine had to rely solely upon luck. Without means of counteracting the side thrust of the propeller she would have a tendency to describe a succession of wide circles.

The thresh of the destroyer's screws overhead had now ceased. Things were looking a little more hopeful, since the submarine hunters had evidently lost touch with their quarry.

Just as hope was reviving another ear-splitting crash, out-voicing the previous detonation, shook the U-boat like a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Thrown first on one side and then on the other, she hurled her crew about like peas in a box, while everything that was not firmly secured was thrown about to add to the clatter and confusion.

"We are sinking!" shouted a dozen terrified voices. "The hull is giving way."

The hiss of inrushing water showed that the thick steel plates had been strained. Already the U-boat was settling towards the bed of the Atlantic.

There was just one chance, and von Loringhoven took it. At the imminent risk of being pulverised by the shells from the "Tantalus," or being rammed by the alert destroyers, he gave orders for all ballast tanks to be blown, at the same time elevating the diving rudders.

With both hands grasping the cam-action bolts of the lid of the conning-tower hatchway, von Loringhoven waited until the U-boat broke surface. With the perspiration rolling down his face, and in momentary anticipation of a salvo of shells landing on the exposed conning tower, the ober-leutnant darted for the open door, Kuhlberg and the quartermaster tying for the second place.

Less than two hundred feet above the now motionless U-boat floated Coastal Airship No. 144A, manoeuvring to repeat her strafing operations.

Promptly von Loringhoven raised his hands above his head in token of surrender, while the rest of the crew, who had taken their cue from the cowardly commander, stood in line with their arms upraised.

CHAPTER XII

PRISONERS OF WAR

"YOUR bird," wirelessed Lieutenant-Commander Ronald Tressidar, D.S.O., of H.M. Destroyer "Antipas."

"Thanks," was Barcroft's laconic reply.

"Stand by and pick up the pieces."

The "Antipas" approached rapidly, manoeuvring to keep bows on to the U-boat's stern. Fritz is a treacherous skunk to deal with. The modern pirates lack even the faint spark of chivalry that was to be occasionally met with in the German Navy during the earlier stages of the Great War. If the crew of the surrendered craft had an opportunity it was just possible that they might have let fly at the destroyer with a torpedo; consequently, in the knowledge that there was no sting in the submarine's tail, Tressidar took the precaution already referred to.

"Away whaler," ordered the lieutenant-commander. "I suppose the bounders have opened the sea-cocks, Mr. Holcombe, but make sure on that point."

The whaler was manned and lowered, with Sub-Lieutenant Holcombe in command. Only a distance of two cables' lengths separated the "Antipas" from Barcroft's prize.

"We surrender!" announced von Loringhoven, as the boat ran alongside U 254.

"So I understand," replied Holcombe. "If you've been trying to scuttle your hooker, take my tip and close the valves. We are about to take you in tow."

"Himmel!" ejaculated the ober-leutnant. "It is impossible. Every plate in the hull is strained."

"I'll satisfy myself on that point," rejoined the sub. "If you play any monkey tricks there'll be trouble for the whole crowd of you."

Agilely Holcombe boarded the submarine, bidding the whaler lay off at two lengths' distance and not to take off any of the prisoners until he gave orders.

"I suppose," he remarked, addressing the ober-leutnant, "that every man on board is now on deck?"

"Yes, every man," declared von Loringhoven in an assumed tone of pained surprise. "For why do you ask?"

"Because," replied Holcombe, looking the ober-leutnant straight in the face, "one of our destroyers picked up two survivors of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' yesterday. Something seems to have gone wrong with your spurlos versenkt plans, Herr Kapitan. One of the men stated that the master of the tramp was taken on board U 254 as a prisoner. Where is he?"

Von Loringhoven was trembling like a leaf.

"I had forgotten him," he stammered.

It was only half a truth. In the wild rush for the open air the ober-leutnant had overlooked the fact that the staunch old British merchant skipper was still locked up in one of the store rooms. Afterwards he had decided to let the prisoner stay, since his appearance might lead to awkward questions being asked. With the amount of water already in the hull of the submarine, he argued with himself, no inquisitive Englishman would dare to go below to investigate. But he was very much mistaken.

"It is not too late to make reparation for your thoughtlessness, Herr Kapitan," said Holcombe sternly. "Lead the way below to where the prisoner is confined. I will accompany you."

Von Loringhoven began to give instructions in German to one of his men, but the sub shut him up very promptly.

"No deputies are permitted for this business," he observed. "Lead on, Herr Kapitan. For the second and last time, I order you. Until the master of the s.s. 'Guiding Star' is rescued, not a man of the crew of this vessel will be removed."

Several of the Huns who understood English immediately offered their services, but Holcombe "turned them down." His anger was aroused and he meant to give the brutally callous ober-leutnant a practical lesson.

In desperation von Loringhoven descended the steel ladder in the interior of the conning tower, Holcombe following him closely. By the aid of an electric torch the sub realised that the ober-leutnant's description of the state of the prize was not exaggerated. Already the water was ankle-deep above the floor, surging sullenly with every sluggish motion of the slowly foundering U-boat. In a dozen places jets of water were squirting through the strained plates, the sound of splattering liquid echoing and re-echoing in the confined space.

With a master-key von Loringhoven unlocked the door of the prisoner's cramped quarters. If he had expected to see a terrified man he was mistaken, for the sturdy old skipper was at least outwardly unperturbed.

"Glad you've come, sir," he exclaimed as he caught sight of a British naval uniform. "I thought it was all U P with me this time, but there was one consolation: I wasn't going to Davy Jones with a crowd of dirty Huns for messmates."

"If you don't look sharp and get a move on you'll have one at all events," said Holcombe, indicating the still trembling ober-leutnant, who was casting anxious glances, first at his late prisoner and then at the steadily rising water.

Upon regaining the deck the sub ordered the whaler alongside. The master of the "Guiding Star" was assisted into the stern-sheets: he was too weak with the reaction following his release to trust to his own limbs. Then, one by one, the prisoners were ordered into the boat, while Holcombe, with the ensign of the prize under his arm, was the last to leave. He was only just in time, for the U-boat's deck was now awash. Before the whaler had rowed a hundred yards U 254 brought her career of black and ignominious piracy to a close by seeking a final resting-place on the bed of the Atlantic.

"It's fortunate for those fellows that you are on board the 'Antipas,'" was Lieutenant-Commander Tressidar's greeting to the master mariner. "My sub, Mr. Holcombe, had definite instructions on that point."

"Murderous swine!" growled the skipper of the torpedoed tramp. "I haven't a doubt that they deliberately killed my two boats' crews in cold blood, although I didn't see it myself."

"All but two," corrected Tressidar. "One of our destroyers found them clinging to the wreckage of a boat. The bow portion was cut clean away and floated bottom upward. The poor fellows had the sense to get underneath, and so balked the Huns. Yes, justice will be done, although, thank goodness, retribution is in worthier hands than mine."

There was no sloppy sentimentality in Ronald Tressidar's character. Knowing the U-boat's crew to be pirates and murderers he treated them with scant consideration. Von Loringhoven, Kuhlberg, and their men were ordered below and placed under lock and key, while the "Antipas," having hoisted in the whaler, started off to overtake the still manfully labouring "Tantalus."

"By Jove, Holcombe!" observed the lieutenant-commander to his sub as they stood upon the bridge and kept the torpedoed cruiser under observation by means of their binoculars, "the old hooker looks like fetching home after all. She doesn't appear to be listing much more. Wonder where Barcroft has bundled off to?"

"The Blimp did jolly well, sir," remarked Holcombe. "Only I can't quite make out why she didn't pulverise the U-boat."

"Nor can I," agreed Tressidar. "I'd dearly like to pull Barcroft's leg over the business, only he might retaliate by asking how we came to miss the strafed Hun with our depth charge. Hullo! there's the Blimp—still strafing something, I believe."

The airship, almost invisible against the grey sky, was about ten miles astern. Two faintly muffled reports indicated the present nature of her business.

"Any wireless from 144A?" inquired Tressidar of the telegraphist.

"No, sir."

"Then get a message through. Inquire if any assistance is needed."

It was five minutes later, by which time the Blimp was lost to sight, that the reply came through.

"No assistance necessary. Mine-laying sub-marine properly strafed this time."

The lieutenant-commander and the sub exchanged glances.

"That's a nasty one," remarked Tressidar. "Barcroft's evidently blaming us for getting in his way when he kippered U 254. I remember——"

"Look, sir," interrupted Holcombe. "The old 'Tantalus' is going."

Levelling his glasses in the direction of the stricken cruiser, Tressidar realised that her end was nigh. Apparently a bulkhead had given way, admitting an enormous quantity of water, for the vessel was heeling to an angle of forty-five degrees, while her stern was lifting until the blades of the remaining propeller were churning the water into cauldrons of foam.

While the "Antipas" was hurrying to the assistance of the foundering "Tantalus" the lieutenant of the destroyer mounted the bridge.

"Here's a curious bit of documentary evidence to find on the person of a Hun, sir," he remarked, tendering Tressidar a folded piece of paper. "While we were examining the pirate chief's belongings I came across this. It was in his pocket-book."

"H'm!" commented Tressidar. "This will want some explanation. A bill for a dinner for two at the Imperial Hotel, Trebalda. That's somewhere in North Cornwall, I believe. Let me see, what's the date? By Jove! The consummate cheek of the fellow. He was evidently ashore a little more than forty-eight hours ago."

"Up to some underhand mischief, I'll be bound, sir," remarked the lieutenant.

"Looks like it, Mr. Palmer," agreed the lieutenant-commander. "If you have no objection, I'll take charge of this scrap of paper. Meanwhile we have more urgent work in hand."

And he indicated the stricken cruiser, still battling gamely in her attempt to reach shallow water.

CHAPTER XIII

THE END OF THE "TANTALUS"

"SHE'LL do it, I fancy," remarked the officer of the watch as the sorely stricken "Tantalus" drew closer and closer to the shore.

The cruiser was making for a broad and comparatively shallow bay, now distant about two miles. Eight hours had elapsed since the torpedo had "got home," and the sun was sinking low in the west.

With two destroyers in close attendance there was little fear of loss of life unless the final catastrophe occurred so suddenly that the heroic engine-room officers and artificers and the stokers were trapped before they could make their way on deck. The remaining destroyers were patrolling at about two miles off, keeping a sharp look out in case another hostile submarine attempted to precipitate matters.

"It certainly looks as if we'll manage it," agreed Farrar. "Already we are in shoal water. The leadsman has just sung out, 'By the mark fifteen.'"

The lieutenant leant over the bridge rail. Thirty feet below and within a couple of yards of the sea was a small grated platform projecting over the side. In normal conditions the leadsman's place was twenty-five feet above the water-line, but the cruiser had settled to such an extent and was listing so much to starboard that there was hardly room for the men to swing the weighty lead before releasing it.

"That's promising," agreed the officer of the watch. "Slogger, my festive, I'll give you a fiver for the motor-bike you bought from the marine officer."

"Thanks—no; I'll hold on to it," replied Farrar. "It will come in handy when I get my leave."

Even as he spoke a heavy cloud of smoke and steam issued from the funnels and steam pipes. Almost at the same time the labouring thuds of the hard-worked propeller ceased to be heard. Above the hiss of escaping vapour rang out the strident shouts of the bo'sun's mates as the engine-room ratings were ordered on deck.

"That's done it!" exclaimed the sub. "Suppose you won't reopen your offer?"

"Dead off," replied the lieutenant, laughing.

"That motor-bike will give the mermaids a chance of joy-riding.... Hullo! we're preparing to anchor."

Deep down the "Tantalus" carried but little way. Already her motion through the water was hardly perceptible. On the fo'c'sle the hands were hard at work clearing away, setting back the compressors and slacking off the cable-holders.

"Stream the buoy!"

Smartly the canvas-clad seamen stepped clear of the cable as the watch-buoy and rope were thrown over the side.

"Let go No. 1 Bower!"

Deftly a hand told off for the purpose removed the pin of the releasing lever; to the accompaniment of a rumbling, metallic sound, as the chain surged through the hawse-pipe, the enormous anchor, weighing a little over five tons, went plunging to the bottom.

The "Tantalus" brought up in nine fathoms, to settle on the sandy bed until the time came for that gaping hole in her side to be repaired.

The moment had now arrived for the order "Abandon ship!" With absolute precision and deliberation the davit boats on the starboard side were lowered. The sick-bay cases, with stewards in attendance, were the first to be sent away; the members of the diplomatic mission followed; and then the seamen took their places in the boats until the latter had received their full complement. The boats in davits on the port side were useless, owing to the extreme list of the ship, while with the final break-down in the engine room, steam could not be used to work the main derrick. Nor was it deemed advisable to get out the boom boats by hand, as the additional weight of the heavy craft would endanger the already slight reserve of stability of the heeling ship.

"We may have to swim for it yet, old boy," exclaimed Farrar, stooping to pat Bruno's head, for the St. Bernard seemed to realise instinctively that all was not well on board and had stuck resolutely at his master's heels.

Weird noises from 'tween decks announced that the list was growing so excessive as to cause all slightly secured gear to break adrift. The men still drawn up on the quarter deck and fo'c'sle were with difficulty retaining their foothold, for the steepness of the planks resembled the roof of a house.

All eyes were fixed upon the solitary figure of the captain as he grasped the guard-rails of the bridge. Still the order, "Each man for himself!" was not forthcoming, for the destroyers were closing upon the sinking ship.

With hardly the loss of a square inch of paint the "Antipas" ranged alongside the cruiser's starboard quarter, Tressidar's chief anxiety being to guard against the danger of his command being pinned down by the outswung davits, for the upper blocks of the falls were within a foot or eighteen inches of the destroyer's rail, while the lower blocks were clattering against her side.

"Jump for it, lads!" shouted the captain.

Then, and only then, did the rigidly straight and silent ranks break. In fifteen seconds four hundred officers and men, together with the varied assortment of ship's mascots, were safely on board the "Antipas," while a like number gained safety on the destroyer that had run alongside the cruiser and ahead of her consort.

In strict accordance with the ancient and honourable custom of the Senior Service the captain was the last to leave the ship. Descending from the bridge he made his way aft, saluting his command for the last time as he gained the quarter deck. Then, with the water up to his knees as he reached the lee side of the listing deck, he, too, found temporary refuge on the destroyer "Antipas."

With their numerous super-complements the two destroyers backed clear of the sinking ship, coming to a standstill at a distance of three cables from the veteran cruiser.

The end was not now long in coming. More and more grew the heel, until the after-funnel, bursting its wire guys, crashed over the side. Two more followed in quick succession; then, with a terrific rending of metal and woodwork, the for'ard 9.2-inch gun and its armoured hood lurched overboard, throwing up a column of spray that o'ertopped the slanting fore-truck.

Relieved of the ponderous weight the "Tantalus" recovered slightly, but the righting movement was but temporary. The inrush of water was as loud as the concentrated roar of a dozen mill-streams, while ever and again came the explosion of compressed air as the bulkheads gave way under the irresistible pressure.

Then the after 9.2-inch followed the example of the for'ard one, the muzzle of the enormous weapon ploughing up a large portion of the quarter deck before it toppled over the side.

The ends of the lower signal yardarms dipped beneath the water; the main-topmast, snapping just above the fire-control platform, disappeared, taking with it a tangled mass of wire and hemp cordage. Cowls, derricks, and a medley of deck gear were taking charge, while the heavy boom boats, breaking from their securing lashings, slid noisily into the sea.

Amidst a smother of foam, and surrounded by an archipelago of floating debris, the "Tantalus" fell right over on her beam ends, resting on the bottom with only a portion of her port battery showing above the still agitated water—the grey-painted metal tinted a ruddy hue in the last rays of the setting sun.

"Give the old ship a cheer, lads!" shouted her late captain.

The men gave three resounding cheers in the true old British style, the soft west wind catching the echoes and sending them far and wide across the lofty Cornish land; while the "Antipas" and her consorts bore away for the Trecurnow Naval Base.

"We've a pretty big crowd on board," remarked Holcombe to his chum Farrar. "You hardly expected to find yourselves shipmates with a horde of Huns, did you?"

"Shipmates with a horde of Huns?" repeated Farrar. "What do you mean?"

"Simply that we have the crew of the U-boat that torpedoed you safely under hatches."

"That's good!" exclaimed the R.N.V.R. sub. "We heard that you had strafed old Fritz, but having her crew on board is news—absolutely."

"And," continued Holcombe, "we were examining the prisoners' effects. In the kapitan's pocket-book we found a receipted bill for a double dinner at one of the leading hotels at Trebalda. The old sinner must have gone ashore in mufti, taking one of the officers with him most likely, or else he met a pal. Mark my words, there'll be some lively developments. The kapitan—von Loringhoven's his name, brother to that Zeppelin commander who raided Barborough last year—looked a bit silly when we found the document, but he wouldn't say how he got hold of it. It's up to some one to find out. So our skipper is going to send the bill to Scotland Yard."

"What's von Loringhoven like?" asked Nigel.

"Too much like an Anglo-Saxon to my idea," replied Holcombe. "Speaks English without a trace of a German accent."

"And his second-in-command?"

"Unspeakable," answered the destroyer's sub with a shrug of his shoulders. "A loose-lipped, chinless Hun, with an everlasting giggle that is ever present when he has the wind up properly. He speaks English after a fashion; but he'd give himself away before he opened his mouth."

"Then one may take it for granted that von Loringhoven's companion at dinner was not his unter-leutnant," decided Farrar. "I wonder if the fellow who tried to blow up Poldene Bridge had a hand in that evening's festivities?"

"You're a rum one for fantastic theories, Slogger," protested Holcombe.

"P'r'aps;" admitted Farrar; "but strange things happen in the war, you know."

CHAPTER XIV

A CHANCE SHOT

"WHAT are you going to do with yourself, old man?" inquired Eric Greenwood, late assistant-paymaster of H.M.S. "Tantalus," after the court-martial had sat upon the survivors of the lost cruiser and, following its finding, the officers and men of the sunk vessel had been given fourteen days' leave.

"Hardly know yet," replied Farrar. "Run up to town, I expect—may get a bit of excitement there; or else look up some of my people's friends at Lymbury, although it's five years or more since we—that is, my parents—left the place. The governor's got a Staff job out in New Zealand."

"Look here," exclaimed the A.P. impetuously. "Come and sling your hammock at my people's place. My governor has just taken a house at Penkestle, close to where Tressidar's family hang out. The skipper of the 'Antipas' is my revered brother-in-law. I suppose you know that?"

Farrar shook his head.

"Well," continued Greenwood, "that's neither here nor there as far as present circumstances stand. I have an open invite for any of my pals, so how about it? Fishing, shooting, and all that sort of thing, but I'm afraid motoring's dead off."

"Thanks, I'm on," accepted Farrar promptly. Truth to tell he had not been looking forward to his leave with pleasurable anticipations. "Knocking around" without any definite plan of action was distasteful to him, but the A.P.'s invitation put a totally different aspect upon things.

"But I say," he added dubiously, "what about Bruno?"

"Bruno, of course, stands in," declared Greenwood. "My people are very keen on dogs—large ones especially. I'll wire off at once, and we'll catch the 4.45 from Trecurnow. We'll have to change at St. Penibar."

"Where is Penkestle?" asked the sub.

"About four miles from Trebalda: you know where that place is?"

"Heard of it," admitted Farrar. "Holcombe mentioned that the kapitan of U 254 was supposed to have landed there in mufti. Right-o; I'll have my gear together by lunch-time. Hear that, Bruno? We're off to a country-house. A change for you, old boy, after a crowded mess-deck."

The St. Bernard blinked solemnly, as if to imply that he didn't care a brass farthing whether he was on dry land or on the heaving deck of a ship as long as he was in his master's company.

Although only a distance of fifty miles it was seven o'clock before the two young officers arrived at Trebalda Station.

"There's the governor!" exclaimed Eric. "Come along, old man. Pater, let me introduce you to my pal Slogger, otherwise Nigel Farrar, one of the homeless waifs from the old 'Tantalus.' And Bruno, of the same reliable firm."

Mr. Greenwood greeted the sub warmly, although he eyed the huge St. Bernard with misgivings.

"Er—Bruno's almost as big as a donkey," he observed, "but we can't put him out to grass. Still, we'll do our best for him in the commissariat department."

"All ready, pater?" inquired Eric, lifting his portmanteau from the platform.

"Far from it, my boy," replied his parent. "Put that thing on a seat and have a smoke. I'm killing two birds with one stone—hence the ponderous conveyance."

And he indicated a five-seater car waiting outside the station gates.

"What's the move, then?" inquired the A.P.

"More visitors," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Fortunately the house is large. An old friend of mine—one I haven't seen for over twenty years—is arriving by the down train. Barcroft's his name—Peter Barcroft. You've heard me mention him?"

"By Jove, that's strange!" remarked Farrar. "The Blimp johnny who strafed our pal U 254 is a Barcroft. Any relation, I wonder?"

"Yes, his son," replied Mr. Greenwood. "Peter mentioned that his son Billy was in the Naval Air Service. Good, the signal's down. The train seems pretty punctual."

"Come here, Bruno," ordered the sub, noticing that the animal was rubbing his muzzle against the hand of a dark-featured man who was standing by the ticket-gate.

"I don't mind," exclaimed the man, patting the St. Bernard's head. "Used to animals, you know. Fine brute."

With a casual movement he glanced at the dog's collar—a silver-plated one inscribed "Bruno—Sub-Lieutenant N. Farrar, R.N.V.R., H.M.S. 'Tantalus.'"

"H'm!" he muttered. "Quite a coincidence. ...Here! Good dog, go to your master."

Just then the train ran into the station. Amidst the loud noise of doors opening and shutting about a dozen passengers boarded the train, while nearly three times that number alighted. Amongst them was a well-set-up, clean-shaven man in a Norfolk suit.

"Hullo, Greenwood!" he exclaimed briskly.

"Pleased to meet you again after all this long time. By Jove, I recognise you, you see. Looking jolly fit, too."

"I feel fit," admitted his friend. "Work on the land, drilling with the Gorgeous Wrecks, making myself generally useful, and all that sort of thing, don't you know. And war rations suit me, too. Feel twenty years younger than I did before the war, and, by Jove, I'm my own carpenter, bricklayer, plumber, and a dozen other trades rolled into one. If I had known as much ten years ago as I do now, I would have saved hundreds of pounds in wages. But I'm forgetting: my son, Eric; his friend, Mr. Farrar—Mr. Farrar knows your boy, I believe."

"Only by name," corrected the sub. "As a matter of fact he was in command of the Blimp that strafed the U-boat that did us in. We're late of the 'Tantalus.'"

"Oh, was he?" remarked Peter Barcroft drily. "First I've heard of it. Precious little news I get from Billy about his doings."

"True to the traditions of the Great Silent Navy," observed the A.P. "Of course we don't like advertising, but there are times when various little incidents will out."

"Look here," interrupted Mr. Greenwood, beaming affably. "If you are about to start a debate on the subject of the Royal Navy, I'll order the car to return in three hours' time. I say, Barcroft——"

But Peter Barcroft had broken away from the group. Nigel Farrar caught sight of him shaking the hand of the individual who had been fondling his dog.

"Bless my soul, Entwistle!" exclaimed Peter. "What on earth are you doing down here—shadowing me?"

"Hope I shan't have to do that again," replied Philip Entwistle, Secret Service Agent. "I'm on the track of a fellow who dined at an hotel here with the captain of a German submarine. Keep the information to yourself, although before long I may have to enlist the aid of these naval officers. That St. Bernard gave me a clue. Oh, by the by, how are your dogs, Ponto and Nan?"

"Fit as ever, short commons notwithstanding," replied Peter. "I didn't bring them down with me, to their great discontent. Well, I mustn't keep my old friend Greenwood any longer. I'll be bound to run across you in a day or so."

"Who's that fellow, Peter?" asked Mr. Greenwood as the four men and Bruno boarded the waiting car.

"An old friend of mine, a veterinary surgeon," explained Mr. Barcroft. "He lives but a few miles from me. The world is small. I hardly expected to find him here."

A quarter of an hour later the car pulled up at "The Old Croft," at Penkestle, a long, two-storied stone building like many another to be found in Cornwall.

"Show Farrar his room, Eric," said Mr. Greenwood after the guests had been introduced to Mrs. Greenwood and her two daughters: Doris, now Mrs. Ronald Tressidar, and Winifred, a lively girl of seventeen or eighteen. "I'll take Peter to his temporary quarters. Dinner is when, my dear?"

"At eight, for this night only," replied Mrs. Greenwood. "Now, girls, set to. We've each our allotted tasks now, owing to the shortage of servants," she explained. "Eric, you've come home at a very opportune moment."

"How's that, mater?" asked the A.P.

"There's no meat for to-morrow, so you can organise a rabbit-shooting party. You'll like to take a gun, Mr. Farrar?"

"Rather," replied the sub with alacrity.

"And Mr. Barcroft?" inquired the A.P.

Peter was in the act of following his host upstairs. He stopped and shook his head.

"Thanks," he replied. "I'm not taking any just at present," he observed. "Used to do a lot of shooting on the moors. Saw a man... an—er—acquaintance, or, rather, a neighbour, messed about pretty badly through his gun bursting.... He died soon after. It put me off absolutely."

"I'll come, Eric," said Winifred. "That is, if you want me. And you can lend me your small gun. Those twelve-bores kick so."

"Delighted, Freddy, I'm sure," exclaimed her brother with genuine pleasure. "Farrar, old bird, you'll have to look to your laurels. Freddy is a regular terror when she's after bunnies."

Soon after breakfast the following morning the three guns set out, accompanied by a pair of silky-haired spaniels, greatly to Bruno's resentment, for to the St. Bernard things didn't seem at all right that his master should take a couple of insignificant and strange dogs for a stroll, while he was condemned to spend the morning locked up in a shed.

"By Jove, this air is great!" remarked the sub, as they crossed a stile and gained the open moor. "Your governor couldn't have chosen more desolate surroundings, Greenwood. Not a sign of a human being or a habitation for miles ahead. Look here, Miss Greenwood, allow me to carry your gun."

The A.P. laughed as his sister shook her head resolutely.

"Freddy likes to be independent," he observed. "I say, Farrar, you've just told a terminological inexactitude; where are your eyes? There's some one coming this way."

"Yes, you're right," admitted Farrar. "And, strange enough, it's the fellow we saw on Trebalda Station platform: the one who spoke to Mr. Barcroft, you remember?"

"Good morning," exclaimed Entwistle, raising his cap as he approached. "Can you direct me to 'The Croft'?"

"You are going to see your friend, Mr. Barcroft, I presume?" asked the A.P. after giving the required direction. "You are Mr. Entwistle, I think?"

"I am," admitted the Secret Service man, wondering how much Peter had said about him. "And how is your St. Bernard, Mr. Farrar?"

It was the sub's turn to be surprised, only, unlike Entwistle, he expressed it openly.

"I saw your name on the dog's collar," explained Entwistle. "Well, don't let me detain you. I wish you good sport."

"We are bound to see you at lunch," said Eric. "The governor will insist upon your staying."

"You are very hospitable," remarked Entwistle.

"Not at all," protested the A.P. "Simply my governor's deputy, don't you know. The fact that you are a friend of Mr. Barcroft is sufficient guarantee for me to ask you."

The Secret Service man, still in the dark as to how much the young naval officer knew of his affairs, raised his cap to Winifred and hastened in the direction of "The Old Croft," while the trio resumed their way.

"Time to load," remarked Eric as they found themselves confronted by a rounded hill, the face of which was studded with gorse and heather. "We'll be bound to have some sport before we get to the top of Plas Tor. Keep fifty yards apart, and go dead in the eye of the wind: that's the move."

Before Farrar had cautiously covered a distance of a hundred yards, the while ascending the somewhat broken ground, a rabbit, surprised in the open, bolted from almost under his feet. He raised his gun, pulled both triggers—and missed. Somewhat to his mortification a shot rang out on his left and down dropped bunny like a stone.

"Simply had to do it," said Winifred, extracting the still smoking cartridge from her gun. "You let off too soon, Mr. Farrar: before the shots had time to spread."

"A clinking shot that of yours, any way," exclaimed the sub enthusiastically. "Eighty yards."

"Say sixty," corrected the girl, taking the rabbit from one of the spaniels. "Better luck next time, Mr. Farrar."

The sub reloaded, conscious at the same time of a numbing pain in his right shoulder. Letting off both barrels of a twelve-bore simultaneously, he reflected, causes the gun to recoil considerably more than the comparatively slight kick of a .303 Service rifle.

Without the chance of another shot the three "sportsmen" gained the summit of the tor, the A.P. looking considerably dejected at his failure as a prophet.

"Last time I was on leave I bagged seven on this hill," he declared in substantiation of his shattered claim. "Wonder what's up with the little beasts to-day?"

"I see by the papers that rabbits are included in meat rations," observed Winifred. "Consequently, as in other cases, there is an immediate shortage. If only the Controller would place U-boats on the list of controlled articles, they, too, would doubtless disappear."

"Hard lines on submarine hunters, then," added the A.P. "My worthy brother-in-law would be hard up for a job; and as for young Barcroft——"

"Allow me to remind you," interrupted the sub, "that discussing U-boat strafers won't find the ingredients for a rabbit pie. Which way now, old bird?"

Eric Greenwood shaded his eyes and gazed down into the valley, that literally simmered in the blazing sunshine. Everywhere wisps of mist were rising as the sun's rays beat upon the dew-sodden grass.

"We'll try in the direction of Bold Tor," he replied. "It's a good three miles, but we can have something to eat when we get to the top and still get back well in time for lunch."

For the best part of an hour the three guns proceeded at varying distances apart, but ill-luck attended them. Not another rabbit was to be seen, despite the fact that the girl and her two companions moved with deliberate stealth, with the well-trained dogs following silently at Winifred's heels.

"Slow sport," soliloquised the sub. "Well, thank goodness, we're nearly to the top of Broad Tor; then we can ease our jaw-tackle. Hanged if I like being as silent as a Trappist monk."

Suddenly, two swift, brownish objects darted from the cover of a gorse-bush. Farrar had a momentary glimpse of two white tails as the animals changed course and bolted for a place of refuge—a honey-combed bank overhung with low bushes.

Mindful of Winifred's warning, he fired at forty yards. Down dropped one rabbit, kicking frantically, while the other, partly crippled, struggled towards the nearmost hole. With his gun still at the shoulder the sub fired the second barrel.

"Hurrah!" he shouted involuntarily, as the second rabbit dropped; but as he started to run to secure his prizes, he caught a brief glance of a man's head and shoulders above the bushes, one side of his face streaming with blood, ere he dropped to the ground.

"Well done!" exclaimed the A.P., who on hearing the shots was hastening towards the sub.

"Far from it," said Farrar in a low voice. "I say, keep Miss Greenwood back out of it; I've plugged some poor bounder."

"Rot!" exclaimed the A.P. incredulously.

"Fact," protested the luckless sportsman. "Be quick, man! Take her away out of it."

Leaving Greenwood to attempt the futile task the sub forced his way through the undergrowth till he came to the spot where his victim dropped. Lying face downwards on a small plot of grass was a tall, well-built man, unconscious, but breathing stertorously. A cloth cap was hung up in the bushes, having evidently been blown there by a portion of the charge of No. 6 shot. The cap had to a certain extent protected its wearer, for beyond a few slight scratches the top of his head was untouched; but from the right temple downwards to the neck the hard-hitting pellets had done their work only too well.

While Farrar was attempting to render first-aid the A.P. and his sister arrived upon the scene, Winifred insisting on giving her assistance as a member of the V.A.D.

"It looks a worse case than it actually is," she declared in her best professional manner. "And there's no water to be had nearer than the village. The best thing we can do is to get him to the house."

"But how?" asked her brother. "It is almost impossible to get a cart of any description over this rough ground."

"We'll have to carry him," replied Winifred. "Get a couple of those young trees," and she pointed to a clump of ash saplings, the only trees to be found for miles, though fortunately close at hand.

Quickly Eric felled two of the young trees by the simple expedient of firing a charge of shot into each at close range. A knife soon cleared off the shoots, and a pair of serviceable poles, ten or twelve feet in length, were at the disposal of the amateur ambulance party.

The two men's coats—they were in mufti—were then pressed into service to complete the rough-and-ready stretcher, and with Winifred walking by the patient's side to steady any unwonted jolt to the conveyance, the sub and the A.P. carried their unconscious burden, one of the dogs being left to guard the guns until they could be sent for.

It was a back-aching task. The man was heavy, the way rough, and the heat terrific, yet gamely the two naval officers "carried on," resolutely declining to allow Miss Greenwood to bear a hand with the stretcher. Not until they were within a mile of "The Croft" did they fall in with a sturdy Cornish countryman, who willingly relieved Eric of his share. A little farther on another villager was able to perform a like service to the fairly "baked" Farrar, and by the time the party drew within sight of the house nearly a score of curious country folk tailed on. An intelligent youth volunteered to ride on his cycle into Trebalda to fetch a doctor, while the rest of the crowd of spectators hung about the gates as the stretcher was borne through the grounds to the house.

CHAPTER XV

LAID BY THE HEELS

"EXCUSE me," said Mr. Greenwood diplomatically, after having welcomed his guest's friend and given him a second invitation to lunch. "I've some work to do in the garden, but I know you two would like to have a yarn together. If, however," he added as he made for the door, "you are in need of a little gentle exercise before lunch I can introduce you to a really healthful and intellectual task—chopping wood. Failing that there are two serviceable prongs in the tool-house."

"Genial old chap," remarked Entwistle, after Mr. Greenwood had gone, "and jolly thoughtful too. As a matter of fact, I wanted to see you alone. Look here, Barcroft, to put a straight question: Did you say anything to young Farrar about my business here?"

Peter shook his head.

"I simply told him you were a vet., and a friend of mine from Barborough," he replied. "As to your business here I'm quite in the dark."

A look of relief flashed across Entwistle's features.

"That's good," he remarked. "It's rather a complex case, and Farrar may be able to render material assistance. I'm on the track of the Poldene Bridge business. I have reason to believe that the kapitan of the U-boat that torpedoed the 'Tantalus' knows something about it. You heard the details?"

"From Farrar and young Greenwood," admitted Peter. "You see, they told me the yarn in connection with that St. Bernard of Farrar's."

"Yes," added the Secret Service man. "That rather baffles me—the dog, I mean. Since I've been in Trebalda I've been on the track of the man who dined with von Loringhoven. The waiter at the hotel led me a pretty dance, and for three days I shadowed a highly respectable London banker who happened to be staying at Trebalda for a month. The waiter, it seems, got mixed up between the banker and a commercial traveller of the name of Middlecrease: that's the man I want—and he's disappeared."

"In what way is the dog concerned?" asked Barcroft.

"I'm coming to that," continued Entwistle. "You see, the fellow who attempted to blow up the bridge answers in description to this Middlecrease, putting aside the difference in clothes. But if Middlecrease were the man it is fairly safe to assume that the St. Bernard he had with him would be well known in this district. Unfortunately the animal was not known to any one until Farrar brought him up by train."

"How did you get on the fellow's track?" inquired Peter.

"From documents found at von Eitelwurmer's house," replied Entwistle. "He was not mentioned by name, but by a number; and from the importance of the numerous references made to him he was evidently one of the heads of the German Secret Service in England, which most people are now beginning to realise as an active and dangerous menace."

"Hope you'll be successful," remarked Barcroft.

"I'll do my level best," rejoined Entwistle. "However, I must wait and have a quiet yarn with Farrar when he returns. There are one or two points I want to go into."

For some moments the two men smoked in silence.

"Seen to-day's paper?" asked Peter.

The Secret Service man shook his head.

"Rarely look at one now-a-days; muzzled a jolly sight too much," he replied. "There's precious little consolation to be found in them. Russia, food-tickets, U-boat menace, tip-and-run raids in the Channel and off the East Coast, general mismanagement—enough to put a fellow off colour absolutely. Anything much this morning?"

"No—only that Sir James Timberhead has resigned."

The Secret Service man snorted indignantly.

"Resigned!" he exclaimed. "These resignations make me feel sick. First this official and then that, hopelessly incompetent nobodies pushed into soft jobs by influential friends, and then can't manage them. I'd make 'em resign—fine them a year's salary. Just think what would happen if Tommy or Jack resigned their jobs—they'd find themselves in front of a firing party in less than no time. Yet every day you'll read that So-and-so has resigned his post owing to ill-health—there's no 'medicine and duty' for them, worse luck!"

"Admitted," replied Barcroft. "But if you are in need of a wholesome tonic, might I suggest an hour or so of young Farrar's or young Greenwood's company. You'll learn something of what's doing, Entwistle. You'll have to drag it from them, but putting two and two together you'll find that the Navy is still the mainstay of the Empire."

"Pity, then, that the man-in-the-street hasn't an opportunity of finding it out," growled Barcroft's companion.

"D'ye mind if I open this window? Jolly warm for the time of year, isn't it?"

Entwistle walked to the window. Then, with his hand on the catch, he exclaimed:

"My word, Barcroft! Something's happened. There's a stretcher being carried up the drive."

Peter was by his friend's side in an instant. He, too, could see the throng of country folk around the gate as they parted to allow the improvised stretcher to pass.

"It's not Miss Greenwood," he decided, giving voice to his thoughts, and not heeding his companion's presence. "Nor Eric.... And there's Farrar. Now, who have they shot?"

"Perhaps no one," remarked Entwistle. "An accident entirely unconnected with the guns."

He threw open the French window and the two men hurried to meet the stretcher, forestalled, however, by Mr. Greenwood, who, in his agitation, had forgotten that he was shouldering a huge wood-cutter's axe and bore a resemblance to the Lord High Executioner.

"What has happened?" demanded Mr. Greenwood.

"Unfortunately I——" began the sub, but Mr. Entwistle raised a warning hand.

"Leave details for the present," he cautioned in a low voice. "Don't incriminate yourself before a crowd. Doctor's been sent for? Good! Where shall we take him, Mr. Greenwood?"

The injured man was taken to a spare bedroom, where his face was washed and his numerous wounds temporarily dressed pending the doctor's arrival.

This done Entwistle drew the sub aside.

"Where did the accident take place?" he asked.

Farrar told him, adding that the shooting party had left the guns there.

"Too tired for a walk?" inquired the Secret Service man.

"Not at all," replied the sub, rather surprised at the invitation. "I'll bring Bruno, too. And Greenwood?"

"Better leave him out of your calculations for the present," decided Entwistle. "I'll get you to offer excuses to our host. Bringing home the guns will be quite a satisfactory pretext."

It was not until the two men were a good distance from the house and well on their way across the moors that Entwistle remarked:

"I may as well be quite open with you, Farrar, knowing that I can rely upon an officer and a gentleman to be discreet. I presume that you are not aware that I am a member of the British Secret Service?"

"A 'tec?" inquired the sub, without betraying any unwonted surprise. "I'm not going to be arrested for manslaughter, I hope?"

"Far from it," replied Entwistle; "especially as the victim is in no great danger from the pellets. He is, nevertheless, in a very hazardous position, for which I have to thank you."

"Me?" exclaimed the sub incredulously.

"Certainly. The fellow you shot is a man who is greatly in request. He is none other than Thomas Middlecrease, known in Germany and elsewhere as Ernst von Gobendorff, and, I venture to suggest, the principal in the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge."

"I saw the man on the train," remarked Farrar. "He was in military uniform. Hanged if I could see much resemblance to the man I shot—build, perhaps, but nothing else."

"The peppering of the pellets made a very efficient disguise," said Entwistle. "The anguish of the wounds tends to contract the facial muscles. I hope you will be able to identify him. Your dog, Bruno, may also be able to afford us some assistance. Hullo! here's the faithful spaniel on guard, I see."

"And there's the place where the man was when I fired," explained the sub. "See, the gorse shows the track of the pellets."

Entwistle made no remark, but forced his way through the bushes by the same track as the one made by the two officers when they carried von Gobendorff away from the scene.

"H'm!" he exclaimed softly as his hand closed upon the butt of a small but extremely powerful automatic pistol that lay partly hidden in the long grass. "Friend Gobendorff was evidently under the impression that you two fellows were tracking him, the presence of Miss Greenwood notwithstanding. He meant to make a fight for it. From the impressions upon the ground I take it that the fellow was kneeling up and looking first in your direction and then towards young Greenwood. The safety-catch of this weapon being released tends to confirm my belief that he meant to make use of the pistol. It was at the moment that he was looking at your friend that the pellets caught him, otherwise he would have received a great portion of the charge full in the face instead of the side of the face."

"Then a thundering good job I did plug the Hun!" declared the sub vehemently. He was not vindictive by nature, but the thought of being in danger of being ambushed and shot down by a skulking assassin riled him. "Better be moving, I suppose? If you'll carry one gun I'll tackle the others. Those rabbits? Yes, I'll bring them along. Poor little beasts; fancy being laid out by the same charge of shot that kippered the Boche spy. Horribly degrading for poor bunny. I say, rummy spot for a spy, isn't it? Did he have an inkling that you were on his track?"

"One cannot tell," replied Entwistle. "My theory is that he was making for a certain cottage, where, from information received, I know the fellow had previously obtained a quantity of explosives. I mean to collar those fellows this afternoon. The time's ripe."

"Single-handed?" inquired the sub.

"If necessary."

"I'd like to have a cut in with you, Entwistle," said Farrar impetuously.

"It's hardly your job," rejoined the Secret Service man dubiously. "There may be a tough sort of scrap."

"In which case two are better than one——"

"Provided each knows his job and doesn't bungle," added Entwistle. "All right, then; it's a bargain. Not a word to the others, mind. I am keeping my friend Peter quite in the dark. Do you understand an automatic?"

"Most makes," admitted the sub.

"Then have this," said his companion, handing him the weapon belonging to the Hun. "I've taken the precaution to set the safety-catch."

"How about you; aren't you armed?" asked the sub.

Entwistle smiled grimly "Trust me," he replied briefly.

At length the two men came within sight of "The Old Croft," outside the gate of which a throng of curious villagers still lingered, while in the carriage drive a motor-car was standing—an indication that the doctor from Trebalda had arrived.

Just as Entwistle and Farrar gained the door the medical man appeared. "How is the patient, doctor," inquired Entwistle.

"Progressing favourably," was the reply.

"Fit to be moved?"

"The day after to-morrow."

"Not to-day?"

The doctor regarded his questioner curiously.

"Why this hurry?"

"I'm in charge of him," declared the Secret Service man.

"I happen to know Mr. Middlecrease as a resident of Trebalda," observed the medical man drily; "and I was not aware that he was in any one's charge."

"Look here," exclaimed Entwistle, drawing the doctor aside. "You've forced my hand, so to speak. This man, Middlecrease, is under arrest as a noted German spy. Naturally I don't want the Greenwoods to know anything about it at present; and still less do I want them to have a Hun in their house, especially as he might take it into his head to vanish during the night."

"Bless my soul, you surprise me!" ejaculated the doctor. "What do you want me to do?"

"To order his removal to a nursing establishment in Trebalda," replied the Secret Service man. "I'll keep my eye on him there. Also, I know I can rely upon your silence."

"Very good," was the reply. "I'll send a motor ambulance along at—what time?"

"Say eight," rejoined Entwistle. "That will leave ample time for our little adventure, Mr. Farrar."

CHAPTER XVI

THE STRUGGLE IN THE LONELY COTTAGE

"YOU'RE a bright sort of friend, Entwistle," was Peter's greeting. "Pushing off with young Farrar and leaving me in solitary contemplation of our host's library. Well, did you get any very important information?"

Entwistle groaned in mock dismay.

"Another of them!" he exclaimed dismally. "Bless my soul, Barcroft, have I to let you into the know, too?"

"You came a cropper once when you didn't take me into your confidence——"

"Don't rub it in," protested the Secret Service man. "I'll cry peccavi. But to return to our original subject. To be brief, young Farrar knocked over my bird. The fellow he shot is von Gobendorff. I've arranged for the man to be moved to Trebalda to-night. Meanwhile—and this is where you come in handy, Peter—Farrar and I are off to complete the coup, and I want you to cover our tracks."

The promise given, Entwistle's spirits rose, when at length, at about four in the afternoon, he bade his host farewell, Barcroft casually suggested that perhaps Farrar would like to walk part of the way with him.

"I'd go myself," added Peter, "only this confounded ankle of mine—an old injury, you know. Besides, Greenwood, we've got a lot to talk about old times."

Farrar and his companion kept along the Trebalda road until they were quite half a mile from the village of Penkestle, then making a considerable detour, they found themselves on the open moor, and roughly three miles N.W. of Broad Tor.

"Here's the spot," said Entwistle, unfolding a large-scale Ordnance map, during a halt made in order to charge and light pipes. "The cottage is shown—about fifty yards from the shaft of a disused copper mine. Whether the two suspects are deliberate traitors to their country, or whether they are unwillingly the tools of the unscrupulous von Gobendorff, remains to be proved; but they are tough characters, so we must be prepared for strong action."

Keeping to the low-lying ground as far as possible, the two men stealthily approached the stone cottage, until it lay revealed at a distance of about a hundred yards. That it was not deserted was evident by a wreath of pale-grey smoke rising into the still air, while tethered to a ring in its stonework was a small, sturdily-built Cornish pony, with a pair of panniers slung across its back.

"Looks like a flit, Farrar," remarked his companion. "I'll go first. You remain here. If I whistle, one blast will mean that things are progressing favourably, and you can help me round them up. Two blasts mean that there is trouble, so don't forget to keep your pistol handy."

Entwistle deliberately knocked out the ashes from his pipe and placed it in a stout leather case.

"Don't want to have an old pal broken in the scrap," he observed, as he put the case into an inner breast-pocket. "Well, au revoir."

Concealed behind a suitably situated clump of gorse Farrar watched the retreating form of his late companion until the latter gained the blank wall of the cottage, and then edged towards the window.

For some moments Entwistle listened, crouching under the sill of the window, then he boldly tried the door. It was locked. The sound of a peremptory knock wafted to the sub's ears. A little interval and the door was thrown open, and the Secret Service man disappeared from Farrar's view.

Five long-drawn minutes passed, but neither by sight nor sound did Entwistle give indication of the progress of his efforts. The sub was becoming anxious when two shrill blasts rent the air. Entwistle was in difficulty and called for aid.

Pistol in hand, Farrar cleared the intervening stretch of rough ground and dashed through the open doorway to his companion's assistance.

In his impetuosity the sub forgot to exercise due caution. A stick was thrust betwixt his legs, and, tripping, Farrar measured his length upon the ground. Slightly dazed by his fall, the sub was hiked up in the clutches of two burly men—a prisoner—and his automatic weapon taken from him.

Vainly he attempted to break away, but an excruciating pain warned him that his captors were applying a most efficacious arm-lock. To struggle more would mean a broken limb.

"Are you sure that there are no more of these prying Englanders, Schranz?" inquired one of the men, speaking in German.

The person addressed—he was the man who had bungled with the signals on the occasion of the attempt to blow up Poldene Bridge—went out, to return presently with the information that everything appeared quiet.

"It is well," rejoined the leader of the gang. "Now to settle with these meddlesome interlopers."

"It is easier said than done," remarked another.

The sub was taking stock of his surroundings. In a corner, and protected to a certain extent by an overthrown table, stood Entwistle, seemingly unperturbed at the danger that confronted him. Instead of two suspects there were four powerfully built men to be reckoned with.

"We'll wait till it's quite dark," resumed the last speaker, "and then these Englanders will be able to test the depth of the shaft. It is better than having recourse to pistol shots; and if their bodies are ever found, well, it will be concluded that they have met with a regrettable accident."

"Why wait?" grumbled Schranz. "Everything is clear outside. Every moment is precious, if we are to get away with whole skins."

"All right," assented the leader. "Two of us will be sufficient to keep the old one in order; you others can remove the young one. Don't be long about it."

With pistols in their hands the two Huns detailed to guard Entwistle covered their prisoner, while the others, seizing Farrar, began to haul him out of the cottage, despite a strenuous resistance on the part of the sub.

So fierce was the struggle that Entwistle's guards turned their heads to watch the fracas. It was exactly what the Secret Service man was waiting for. Without removing his right hand from his hip pocket he fired two shots in rapid succession.

With a yell one of his captors leapt a couple of feet into the air and fell in a huddled mass upon the earth floor.

{Illustration: "SEIZING FARRAR, BEGAN TO HAUL HIM OUT OF THE COTTAGE." [p. 172.}

The other spun round, made a futile attempt to raise his pistol and subsided heavily across the body of his companion.

Intent upon their particular task, Schranz and the fourth man had not realised the turn of events before Entwistle, watching his opportunity, placed a bullet through the former's right arm. Without a great risk of hitting the sub, Entwistle could not fire at the remaining miscreant.

Farrar was now quite equal to the occasion. Finding, although unaccountably to him, that he was engaged against only one man he let drive with a powerful left-hander. His fist struck the Hun fairly and squarely on the chin, and the man dropped like a log.

"Rather warm while it lasted," remarked Entwistle nonchalantly. "'Fraid I've spoilt a good pair of trousers. Any damage?"

"Not to me," replied Farrar. "By Jove! I made a most unholy bungle."

"And so did I," admitted his companion. "So you've nothing to brag about. I was quite under the impression that there were only two of the fellows here, and it gave me a bit of a shock to find four. It's a handy trick, Farrar, to know how to use a pistol without removing it from your hip pocket."

"You might as well extinguish the embers," remarked Farrar.

Entwistle clapped his hand to his smouldering garment.

"Thought I could sniff something burning," he said. "There are advantages and disadvantages to most things, and a pistol fired from one's pocket is no exception. Sorry I landed you in a bit of a mess."

"Not at all," protested the sub. "You saved me from—well—a long and decidedly unpleasant fall. What's the depth of a mine shaft?"

"Anything from two hundred to four hundred feet," was the reply. "As a matter of fact I had no doubts on that score. I knew that one against four was long odds, and reckoned on a division of work when you were collared. It was then an easy matter to dispose of a couple of the bounders, and that equalised things.... No, you don't, Fritz; hands up and behave yourself!"

This was to the man Schranz, who was furtively eyeing the open door, the while nursing his bullet-punctured arm. The fellow whom Farrar had floored was still in a dazed condition, muttering incoherently. Of the others, the leader of the gang was stone dead, Entwistle's shot having penetrated the brain; the other was fast shuffling off this mortal coil.

Deftly the sub dressed the arm of his late antagonist, for the small-calibre bullet had ripped an artery.

"Now what's to be done?" he inquired.

"Go without dinner, I'm afraid," replied Entwistle. He glanced at his watch.

"In another thirty-five minutes," he announced, "we will hand over our prisoners to the local police. I took the precaution this afternoon of telephoning to the superintendent at Trebalda. The cottage will be locked up and seals attached to the doors. To-morrow I can investigate its contents at my leisure. Now, our immediate business completed, I think we'll have a pipe—try this tobacco."

CHAPTER XVII

THE BURNING MUNITION SHIP

"How about a few hours ashore?" asked Sub-Lieutenant Farrar. "There's a boat at seven bells, I hear."

"Only too delighted," replied Eric Greenwood. "It looks an interesting old show."

Five weeks had elapsed since the events recorded in the previous chapter. The two chums, appointed to the "Zenodorus," were proceeding to Malta on a transport for the purpose of joining their new ship. Owing to the intricate route taken by the "Timon," the transport conveying eight hundred troops to Salonika, fifteen days had elapsed since the two young officers sailed from Plymouth, and at the present rate of progress the "Timon" might, with luck, drop anchor in the Grand Harbour at Valletta in about another five days' time.

At present she was lying off Arezzo, a seaport on the Italian coast between Genoa and Naples, occupying a mooring close to the well-guarded entrance to the natural harbour. At another buoy a cable's length astern (the transport was lying head to wind in the tideless waters) was a large grey-hulled merchantman flying the Italian flag. Alongside one of the wharfs were two submarines displaying the red, white, and green ensign of Italy, and another with the tricolour of France. A Greek dispatch boat and half a dozen patrol craft completed the number of Allied vessels in the harbour of Arezzo.

"A whacking lump of a boat," remarked the A.P., indicating the merchantman. "Wonder why she's here? I should think there's hardly enough water for a vessel of her draught."

"She's the 'Giuseppe,' I understand," replied Farrar. "Chock-a-block with American-manufactured munitions for the Italian front. Water? She's in eleven fathoms at the very least. Hullo, ready? The steam-boat's alongside."

In the company of about a dozen naval and military officers the two chums descended the accommodation-ladder and entered the waiting boat, their departure being followed by the envious glances of hundreds of Tommies, to whom the opportunity of setting foot on Italian soil was denied.

"Not much of a show," commented Greenwood after the two officers had explored the narrow street that formed the principal thoroughfare of the town of Arezzo. "The place looks jolly picturesque at a distance, but on a closer acquaintance one's enthusiasm is apt to fall flat."