Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War
Date: 2016-05-23T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: War stories; World War; 1914-1918 -- Juvenile fiction; Great Britain. Royal Navy -- Juvenile fiction; 1914-1918 -- Naval operations; British -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: Under the White Ensign: A Naval Story of the Great War

Author: Percy F. Westerman

Illustrator: E. S. Hodgson

Release date: May 23, 2016 [eBook #52141]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN: A NAVAL STORY OF THE GREAT WAR ***

[Illustration: cover art]

Under the White Ensign

By PERCY F. WESTERMAN

"No boy alive will be able to peruse Mr. Westerman's pages without a quickening of his pulses."—Outlook.

The Dispatch-Riders: The Adventures of Two British Motor-cyclists with the Belgian Forces.
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Rounding up the Raider: A Naval Story of the Great War.

The Fight for Constantinople: A Tale of the Gallipoli Peninsula.
"Breathless adventures crowd into this thrilling story.... It teems with enthralling episodes and vivid word-pictures." —British Weekly.
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Captured at Tripoli: A Tale of Adventure.
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LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, Ltd., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.

[Illustration: "TRUE TO THE LONG-ESTABLISHED AND GALLANT CUSTOM OF THE SEA"]

Under the White Ensign

A Naval Story of the Great War

BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of "Rounding Up the Raider"
"The Fight for Constantinople"
&c.

Illustrated by E. S. Hodgson

BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

Contents

CHAP. |
I. | Laddie's Warning
II. | Held Up by a U-Boat
III. | The Bomb in the Hold
IV. | A Night on the Neutral Ground
V. | The Encounter with a Spy
VI. | The Dummy Periscope
VII. | Rammed
VIII. | "In the Ditch"
IX. | A Midnight Expedition
X. | How the Landing Party Fared
XI. | Osborne's Capture
XII. | The Turkish Biplane
XIII. | The "Sunderbund's" Life-boat
XIV. | Submarined
XV. | Castaways on a Hostile Shore
XVI. | 'Twixt U-Boat and Arabs
XVII. | The Whaler's Voyage
XVIII. | In the Nick of Time
XIX. | Misunderstandings
XX. | The Desert Wireless Station
XXI. | "A Proper Lash Up"
XXII. | The Fouled Propellers
XXIII. | Driven to Destruction
XXIV. | The Chase of the Felucca
XXV. | An Unknown Antagonist
XXVI. | Reunited
XXVII. | A Daring Operation
XXVIII. | Osborne's Reward

Illustrations

"True to the long-established and glorious custom of the sea" - - - Frontispiece

"One by one five Germans stumbled up the ladder"

"The submarine was now in an awkward plight"

"Progress was tediously slow"

"The Greeks went down like ninepins"

UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN

CHAPTER I

Laddie's Warning

"What a rotten night!"

With this well-expressed remark Sub-lieutenant Webb gained the head of the bridge-ladder of H.M. armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle.

Contrasted with the brightness of his comfortable cabin the blackness of the night seemed impenetrable. The horned moon, already well down in the western sky, was almost hidden by a rapidly drifting patch of mottled clouds of sufficient density to obscure its pale rays. Slapping viciously against the ship's starboard side were the surging rollers of the Bay of Biscay. With a succession of heavy thuds the waves broke against the vessel's hull, recoiling in masses of phosphorescent foam and at the same time sending clouds of spindrift flying across the lofty bridge. The Portchester Castle was forty-eight hours out from England, bound for patrol duties in the Eastern Mediterranean. It was by no means her first trip to that inland sea. In pre-war days, under a different name, she had been making regular pleasure trips under the auspices of a touring agency. It had been said that her skipper could find his way practically blindfold into any of the better-known Mediterranean ports, so long had he been on this particular service.

But the outbreak of the Great War had changed all that. Taken over by the Admiralty, the former liner-yacht had been rapidly and efficaciously adapted to her new rôle. Her palatial cabin fittings had been ruthlessly scrapped. The dazzling white enamel had been hidden under a coat of neutral grey. Her bluff funnels were disguised with "wash" of the same dingy hue. Light armour protected her vital parts; quick-firing guns of hard-hitting power were mounted on the decks that previously had been given over to pleasure-seeking tourists. In short, the Portchester Castle was now a swift and formidable unit of the British Navy.

Four years had made a marked difference in the appearance of Tom Webb, formerly Tenderfoot of the Sea Scouts' yacht Petrel. Thanks to his preliminary training in the rudiments of seamanship and navigation acquired in the little ketch yacht, Webb had had no difficulty in being accepted for service in the trawler patrol soon after the outbreak of hostilities.

It was now that his Sea Scout training bore fruit. Self-reliant, and willing to undertake the most arduous tasks with the utmost good humour and alacrity, he quickly gained the goodwill of his superiors.

Two years in the North Sea in the trawler Zealous gave him plenty of experience and adventure, until the trawler came to an untimely end in an encounter with some German torpedo-boats, but not before she had sent one of them to the bottom. The outcome of this little "scrap", as far as Tom Webb was concerned, was that the ex-Tenderfoot was given a commission as Acting Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R., and appointed to the armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle.

It required a fair effort on Webb's part to carry out one portion of the Scout's creed and "keep smiling" as he mounted the bridge in this particular middle watch. Turning out of a comfortable bunk to do duty in an exposed, spray-swept post was not a matter of choice but of obligation.

Still dazed by the sudden transition from the electric light 'tween decks to the intense blackness of the night, Webb could just discern the figure of the Sub he was about to relieve.

"Mornin', Haynes!"

"Wish you well of it, my festive," was Dick Haynes's rejoinder. "Nothing to report. Here's the course. You ought to sight the Spanish coast in an hour or so. Well, so long, and good luck!"

The relieved Sub-lieutenant vanished down the bridge-ladder. Webb, muffled in his greatcoat, satisfied himself that the quartermasters were acquainted with the correct compass course, and received the usual report: "Screened light's burning, sir, and all's well."

This done he took up his position on the lee side of the bridge and, sheltered by the storm-dodger, gazed fixedly in the direction of the swelter of black water ahead of the labouring ship.

Slowly the minutes sped. The Portchester Castle, steaming at seventeen knots, rolled and plunged through the long waves without so much as the distant navigation lights of another vessel to break the monotony of the night. Yet the utmost vigilance was necessary. The safety of the ship depended upon the sharp eyes of the two look-out men on the fo'c'sle, and the alertness of the junior watch-keeper on the bridge. To the ordinary risk of collision was added another danger, for hostile submarines had been reported making for the Mediterranean, and were reasonably expected to take a very similar course to that followed by the British armed merchant-cruiser.

The "Rules of the Road for Preventing Collision at Sea" reduced the former danger to a minimum, provided an efficient watch were maintained; against the mad dogs of the sea—the German submarines, who never hesitated to torpedo at sight anything afloat regardless of her nationality—the ship had to take her chances, and trust to Providence and a quick use of the helm to avoid the deadly torpedo, should the phosphorescent swell in the wake of the weapon betray its approach.

A faint click, barely perceptible above the howling of the wind and the swish of the waves, attracted Webb's attention. The officer of the watch had switched off the light in the chart-house before emerging, lest a stray beam should betray the vessel to a lurking foe.

Presently the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared, his outlines just discernible in the faint light; for the moon, now soon on the point of setting, was momentarily unobscured.

"Hallo, Tom!" he exclaimed. "What do you think of the Bay, eh?"

The speaker was Lieutenant Jack Osborne, R.N.R., for the time being officer of the watch. He, too, had good reason to be thankful for his early training as a Sea Scout on the yacht Petrel. The outbreak of war found him at Shanghai—a Third Officer on one of the liners of the Royal British and Pacific Steamship Company's fleet. Within two hours of the receipt of the mobilization telegram, Osborne was on board a vessel bound for Vancouver, en route for home by the Canadian Pacific. Twelve months' sea service procured him his promotion as lieutenant, R.N.R., and when the Portchester Castle was commissioned he found that one of his brother officers was his former Sea Scout chum, Tom Webb.

"An improvement on the North Sea in winter," replied Webb optimistically. "And it will be a jolly sight warmer when we get to the Mediterranean."

"You haven't been abroad before?" asked Osborne.

"Strictly speaking—no," replied the Sub. "I've been within sight of Iceland a few times, and don't want to see it again; but I have never set foot ashore. You remember—— Hallo! What's that?"

He gave an involuntary start as something gripped his left hand with a gentle yet firm hold.

Osborne smiled.

"You're a bit jumpy," he said. "Come, this won't do; it's only Laddie. He's always with me on the bridge, you know."

"Hope he hasn't mistaken my hand for a piece of raw beef-steak," remarked Webb, disengaging his hand from the jaws of a large dog. "I'm not afraid of dogs, you know, Osborne, but for the moment I wondered what was up."

"Only his way of showing friendliness," explained the Lieutenant. "I've had him on board ever since he was a pup. He's only fourteen months old now."

"I haven't seen him before."

"No, I kept him ashore while we were commissioning, and he generally keeps down below for the first twenty-four hours at sea. He'll be a pal to you, Webb; almost as much as Cinders. Well, I'll leave him with you. Stop there, Laddie, there's a good dog. Call me directly you sight Cape Villano light, Webb. Keep it well on the port bow; we're off a tricky coast, you know."

Left alone the Sub stooped and patted the silky hair of the sheep-dog's head. Webb was one of those fellows to whom most dogs take at sight. This animal was no exception to the general rule.

Laddie was a large bob-tailed sheep-dog standing more than two feet from the ground—or rather, deck—and powerfully built. Even in the dim light Webb noticed one peculiarity. The animal's eyes were of a turquoise-blue colour and gleamed in the dark like those of a cat.

Suddenly the animal bounded to the weather side of the bridge and, placing his front paws on the guard-rail, gave vent to three deep, angry barks.

"What's the matter, old boy?" asked Webb, peering in vain to ascertain the cause of the dog's excitability.

Hearing his pet's warning bark Lieutenant Osborne was on the bridge in a trice. One glance at Laddie was sufficient.

"Action stations!" he roared in stentorian tones; then, "Hard-a-port, quartermaster!"

Even as the spokes of the steam steering-gear revolved rapidly under the helmsman's hands, the guns' crews, who had been fitfully dozing beside their weapons, manned the quick-firers, while the search-lights with their carbons sizzling were trained outboard, ready at the word of command to unscreen and throw their dazzling rays upon the surface of the waves.

Listing heavily to port as she turned rapidly on her helm, the Portchester Castle just missed by a few yards an ever-diverging double track of foam that contrasted vividly with the inky blackness of the water.

By a few seconds the British vessel had escaped destruction from a torpedo fired from a lurking hostile submarine.

CHAPTER II

Held Up by a U-Boat

"Hard-a-starboard!" roared Osborne. In the vivid glare of the now unmasked searchlights he had detected a short spar-like object projecting a couple of feet or more above the waves. Almost at the same time three of the Portchester Castle's quick-firers united in a loud roar, their projectiles knocking up tall clouds of foam in the vicinity of the supposed periscope ere they ricochetted a mile or so away.

Dipping in the trough of an enormous roller the slight target was lost to sight. Whether hit by the shell the young lieutenant could not determine. In any case he meant to try and ram the skulking foe.

Round swung the armed liner and, steadying on her helm, bore down upon the spot where the submarine was supposed to be lurking. No slight jarring shock announced the successful issue of her attempt.

"Missed her, I'm afraid, Mr. Osborne," exclaimed a deep voice.

The Lieutenant turned and found himself confronted by the Captain, who, aroused from his slumbers, had appeared on the bridge dressed only in pyjamas, a greatcoat, and carpet slippers.

"And fortunately she missed us, sir," replied Osborne. "The wake of the torpedo was close under our stern."

"Did anyone sight her?"

"The dog, sir," said the Lieutenant. "He began barking at something. I immediately hurried up to see what was amiss, and ordered the helm to be ported."

"Then your wall-eyed pet has done us a good turn," observed Captain Staggles grimly. He was a keen disciplinarian, and did not altogether approve of a dog being brought on board. It was only on Osborne's earnest request that the skipper had relented, and then only on the condition that the animal must be got rid of should he give trouble.

Osborne had run the risk. To lose his pet would be nothing short of a calamity, but such was his confidence in Laddie that he had brought him on board; and now, within a few hours of leaving port, the sheep-dog had gained distinction.

"Suppose the brute's got second sight," remarked the Captain. "Well, carry on, Mr. Osborne, and put the ship on her former course. Call for more speed—the sooner we get away from this particular danger zone the better, since we can do nothing on a night like this. See that a wireless is sent reporting the presence and position of the U-boat."

Having steadied the vessel and dispatched a signalman to the wireless room, Osborne rejoined Webb, who was methodically examining the surface of the sea with his night glasses. Already the search-lights had been switched off and the guns cleaned and secured.

"A close shave," remarked Webb. "I thought she'd bagged us that time. It was fortunate that Laddie gave us warning."

"Fortunate in a double sense," added Osborne. "The skipper will be more favourably disposed towards Laddie after this. I've nothing to say against the Captain (wouldn't if I had, you understand). From what I know of him he's a jolly smart skipper, but I fancy he doesn't cotton on to animals."

"He ought to as far as Laddie is concerned, after this," said the Sub. "It is a perfect mystery to me how the dog spotted the submarine. I'll swear he did. He was so excited that I thought he was going to jump over the rail."

Just then a signalman ran up the bridge-ladder and tendered a writing-pad to the officer of the watch.

"'S.O.S.' call, sir," he explained. "Sparks can't make head or tail of it, in a manner of speaking. He's jotted it down just as it was received."

Osborne took the message and retired into the chart-room. At a glance he discovered that the message was partly in International Code and partly in Spanish, or a language closely approaching it. An intimate knowledge of the ports of the Pacific coast of South America had enabled Osborne to understand a good many words in Spanish. He could therefore make a fair translation of the appeal for aid.

"It's a message from a Portuguese merchantman—the Douro," he explained to Webb. "She is being pursued by a German submarine. She gives her position. We're thirty miles to the nor'nor'-east. Inform Captain Staggles," he added, addressing the signalman.

In a very short space of time the Captain again appeared on the bridge.

"It will be daybreak before we sight her," he observed when Osborne had made his report. "You didn't acknowledge the signal, I hope?"

"No, sir."

"That's good. Sorry to keep Senhor Portuguese on tenterhooks, but if we wirelessed him the strafed Hun might pick up the message. We must try and catch the U-boat on the hop. Pass the word for the look-out to keep his eyes well skinned."

The Captain leant over the for'ard guard-rail of the lofty bridge. Beneath lurked two greatcoated figures sheltering under the lee side of the deckhouse from the driving spray.

"Bos'n's mate!" shouted Captain Staggles.

"Ay, ay, sir."

"Pipe General Quarters."

The shrill trills of the whistle brought the watch below surging on deck. Already by some mysterious means the news had spread along the lower deck. Taking into consideration the fact that the ship had been but newly commissioned, there was little fault to be found with the way in which the men responded to the call.

In the engine-room the staff had risen nobly to the Captain's request to "whack her up". Quickly speed was increased to twenty knots as the Portchester Castle hastened on her errand of succour to the harassed Portuguese merchantman.

"I shouldn't be surprised if we are too late," remarked Captain Staggles. "That wireless will most certainly be picked up by the Portuguese destroyer flotilla patrolling the Tagus. They'll be on the spot before us, I fancy."

Lieutenant Osborne did not reply. He had good cause to think otherwise, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Nevertheless he was glad when the skipper expressed his intention of "carrying on" in the direction of the pursued tramp.

With daybreak came the sound of distant intermittent gun-fire. For five minutes the cannonade was maintained, and then an ominous silence. In addition the hitherto constant wireless appeals for aid ceased abruptly.

"They've got her, I'm afraid," remarked Webb to his chum and brother officer as the twain searched the horizon with their binoculars.

"Not a sign of her," began Osborne.

"Sail ahead, sir," reported the masthead man, who from his point of vantage could command a far greater distance than the officers on the bridge.

"Where does she bear?" shouted Osborne.

"Two points on the port bow, sir," was the prompt reply.

In anxious suspense officers and crew waited for the Portuguese vessel to come within range of vision. Quickly the daylight grew brighter. A slight mist that hung around in low, ill-defined patches began to lift. The sea, still high, rendered it difficult to locate a vessel at any considerable distance from the British auxiliary cruiser.

Presently Osborne went to the voice-tube communicating with the engine-room. His observant eye had noticed that the Portchester Castle's funnels were throwing out considerable volumes of smoke. Since it was imperative that she should conceal her approach until the last possible moment, he requested the Engineer-lieutenant to exercise a little more care in the stokeholds. A minute or two later the black volumes of smoke gave place to a thin haze of bluish vapour.

"There she is!" exclaimed Webb. "By Jove, they've bagged her! She's hove-to."

The tramp, a vessel of about 2000 tons, was lying motionless and showing almost broadside on to the oncoming Portchester Castle. As yet there was no sign of the pursuing submarine.

By the aid of the binoculars the British officers could just discern the red and green mercantile ensign of Portugal being slowly lowered from the vessel's ensign-staff. The Douro had surrendered: would the Portchester Castle be in time to save her from being sunk, or merely able to witness her final plunge, and experience the mortification of finding that the lawless U-boat had submerged into comparative safety?

For some seconds the silence on board the Portchester Castle was broken only by the swish of the water against her bows, the muffled thud of the propeller shaftings, and the clear incisive tones of the range-finding officer as the distance rapidly and visibly decreased betwixt the ship and the supposed position of the German submarine.

Presently, upon the rounded crest of a roller appeared the elongated conning-tower and a portion of the deck of the U-boat. She was forging gently ahead, and was just drawing clear of the bows of the Douro.

The situation was a delicate one. If the German commander's attention were wholly centred upon his capture it might be possible that the submarine would increase her distance sufficiently to enable the Portchester Castle to send a shell into her without risk to the Portuguese vessel. If, on the other hand, the approaching succourer were sighted by the Huns, the submarine would have time to go astern, close hatches under the lee of the Douro, and dive.

Five thousand yards.

A uniformed figure appeared above the poop-rail of the captured tramp. The officers of the British vessel, keeping him under observation by means of the powerful glasses, could see him gesticulating to the submarine. The latter began to lose way before going astern.

Now or never. A gap of barely fifty yards lay betwixt captor and prize. At the word of command the gun-layers of the two for'ard quick-firers bent over their sights. The two reports sounded as one as the projectiles screeched on their errand of destruction.

One shell hurtled within a few feet of the top of the conning-tower, sweeping away both periscopes in its career. The other struck the raised platform in the wake of the conning-tower, exploded, tearing a jagged hole in the hull plating. Before the smoke had time to clear away the U-boat had vanished for all time, only a smother of foam and a series of ever-widening concentric circles of iridescent oil marking her ocean bed.

Viewed from the deck of the Portchester Castle there could be no doubt as to the fate of the modern pirate. Simultaneously a deafening cheer burst from the throats of the British crew. It was a feat to be proud of, sending a hostile submarine to her last account before the Portchester Castle was three days out of port.

When within signalling distance of the Douro the latter rehoisted her colours and made the "NC" signal, "Immediate assistance required".

"Perhaps the Huns have already begun to scuttle her," remarked Tom Webb. "Although I can't detect any sign of a list."

"We'll soon find out," replied Osborne. "Pipe away the cutter," he ordered, in response to a sign from the skipper.

Quickly the falls were manned, the boat's crew, fully armed, scrambling into the boat as it still swung from the davits. Sub-lieutenant Webb, being the officer in charge, dropped into the stern-sheets.

"Lower away."

With a resounding smack the cutter renewed a touching acquaintance with the water. The falls were disengaged, and, to Webb's encouraging order, "Give way, lads!" the boat drew clear of the now almost stationary ship, which was within a couple of cables' lengths of the Douro.

"Wonder what's wrong?" thought Webb, for there were still no signs that the Portuguese vessel had sustained damage. She was rolling heavily in the seaway. Her engines being stopped, she had fallen off in the trough of the sea.

Rounding under her stern the Sub brought the cutter under the lee of the tramp. The bowman dexterously caught a coil of rope thrown by a seaman on the Douro's deck. The trouble was how to board without staving in the cutter's planks against the heaving, rusty sides of the tramp.

The Douro had not come off unscathed in her flight from the German submarine. Under her quarter, and about three feet above the water-line, were a couple of shell-holes. Fortunately the projectiles had failed to burst, otherwise the tramp would not be still afloat. The missiles had partly demolished the wheel-house and played havoc with the bridge, as the shattered woodwork and the debris that littered the deck bore witness. Two of the crew had been slain and three wounded, as a result of being unable to lift a hand in self-defence, yet the Portuguese skipper had held gallantly on his way until a sliver of steel from one of the shells had penetrated the main steam-pipe and had rendered the Douro incapable of further flight.

A Jacob's ladder—a flexible wire arrangement with wooden rungs—had been lowered from the tramp's side. At one moment its bottommost end was swaying far from the vessel's water-line; at another it was pinned hard against her side according to the roll of the ship. Boarding was a difficult—nay, dangerous—business.

Standing with his feet wide apart on the stern-sheets grating, Webb awaited his opportunity. Then he became aware that his boot was touching something soft and endowed with life. To his surprise he found Laddie crouching under the seat.

Evidently the sheep-dog was under the impression that the boat was bound for the shore. He had contrived to leap into the cutter as it was on the point of being lowered, and, although the Sub had not noticed him, the boat's crew had seen and had winked at the presence of the canine stowaway.

"All right, my boy," thought Webb as he made a spring for the swinging ladder. "There you'll have to stop, I fancy. Now you're properly dished."

But the young officer was mistaken. Laddie waited until the last of the boarding party had gained the deck of the Douro, then, knowingly biding his time until the tramp had rolled away from the boat, he made a spring at the ladder and gained the deck.

"Good morning, senhor!" exclaimed the Portuguese skipper in very good English as he greeted the British boarding officer. "We are grateful for your assistance. Another five minutes and the Douro no more would be. I offer my respects to the brave representative of our ancient ally."

"Thank you, senhor capitan," replied Tom with a bow, for he was determined not to be outdone in courtesy by the grateful Portuguese skipper. "Yes, we have sent that submarine to Davy Jones, I fancy. But I have to convey the compliments of Captain Staggles of His Majesty's armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle, and to offer you any assistance that lies in our power. You have the 'NC' signal flying, I see."

"Yes," replied the skipper, grinning broadly and shrugging his shoulders in a manner peculiar to dwellers in southern climes. "The trouble, senhor, is this: down below in the fore-hold are six Germans—men sent on board from the submarine to place explosives in the hold. They are armed, we are not. Can you get them out for us?"

CHAPTER III

The Bomb in the Hold

"Well, that's a cool request," soliloquized Webb. "The old chap wants us to act the part of the cat, and hook the monkey's chestnuts out of the fire. All in a day's work, I suppose."

He glanced at the Portuguese skipper, who was anxiously awaiting the Sub's reply.

"It seems to me a simple matter," said Tom, "to clap on the hatches and carry them into the Tagus. We'll have to tow you, I suppose. There are several of your war-ships off Belem, and I fancy they'll be only too glad of a chance to collar a few Huns."

The captain of the Douro shook his head.

"Senhor, you do not quite understand. These pirates are armed. We are not. Moreover they threaten to blow up the ship."

"Very good," decided the Sub. "Unship the hatches. Stand by, men; take cover until we find out what these rascals intend doing. Laddie, you imp of mischief, keep to heel."

The dog obeyed, reluctantly. Already he had his suspicions that there was danger. His instinct prompted him to bound forward and grapple with the foe.

Deftly the fore hatchway cover was drawn aside. A ray of brilliant sunshine penetrating the narrow opening played with a pendulum-like movement into the dark recesses as the vessel rolled from side to side. The Sub deemed it safe to show himself, since the eyes of the imprisoned Huns were likely to be dazzled by the sudden glare.

"Now then!" he shouted sternly. "Do you surrender?"

"Nein," was the guttural reply; "we vos stop here. If you attempt to damage us do, den we der ship sink."

"All right, please yourself," rejoined Webb coolly. "Only remember, you'll be cooped up under hatches, and I need not remind you that it's a mighty unpleasant death, and you have only yourselves to blame for the consequences of your rash decision."

The trapped Huns conversed amongst themselves for some moments. Apparently their spokesman had been impressed by the Sub's view of the situation, and was communicating the news to his fellows.

"Don't hurry on our account," continued Webb cheerfully. "The odds are that we shall get to the Mediterranean before your submarine. But please do make up your minds."

"You vos our lives spare?" enquired the Hun spokesman anxiously.

"Of course; you will be treated as prisoners of war," replied the young officer promptly.

"Every von of us?"

"Yes, every man jack of you."

"Goot; den we surrender make."

One by one five Germans stumbled up the ladder, each man raising his hands high above his head as he appeared above the coaming. Mistrust was written upon their brutal-looking faces until they found that no attempt was made to harm them. Then their demeanour became insolently defiant towards the smiling young officer.

Webb stepped aside and conferred with the Portuguese captain. The latter nodded his head emphatically.

"Si, senhor; there were six," he declared.

The smile vanished from Webb's face.

"Which of you speak English?" he enquired of the five prisoners.

"Me," replied the man who had tendered the surrender. "Before der war I vos in der English merchantship——"

"Never mind about what you were," said Webb. "The point is: six of you boarded this vessel. There are only five on deck. How about it?"

"We tell you all about it when in the boat we vos," declared the spokesman, glancing over the side at the waiting cutter.

"You'll tell me now," corrected the Sub with unmistakable firmness. "Otherwise I'll have you put in irons."

For a brief instant the Hun hesitated.

"Der six man, Hans, below is," he explained. "He vos stop and light a bomb. Ach! You vos do nodings. You promise make to all our lives spare."

The Sub realized that he had been done. It was up to him to do his best, even at the risk of his life, to prevent the destruction of the ship. It was obviously unfair to risk the lives of his men in a task that, but for his precipitate pledge, need never have been undertaken.

"Keep those fellows on deck under close arrest. The boarding party will remain here," he exclaimed, addressing the coxswain petty officer of the cutter. "I'm going below."

Without hesitation Webb descended the ladder into the gloomy depths of the fore hold. Groping until his feet touched the iron floor, he waited while his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. The place was crowded with cargo, for the most part tiers of barrels. Fore and aft ran a narrow space, terminating at the transverse steel bulkheads.

A faint hissing sound was borne to his ears. For'ard a splutter of dim reddish sparks told him that already the time-fuse had been lighted; but the Hun responsible for the firing of the bomb had not yet bolted for the deck. Was it possible that he was going to throw away his life in a useless act of revenge upon the Douro? Or was the time-fuse of sufficient length for him to remain in the hold for several minutes before making a dash for safety?

In any case the Sub had no time to debate upon the situation. His chief concern was to save the ship. Unhesitatingly he made his way towards the hissing fuse.

"Tamped" by means of a bale of cotton, the bomb had been placed against the curved tapering side of the ship. Only a few inches of the fuse was visible. It seemed a matter of a few seconds before the powerful explosive would be detonated.

Placing his boot upon the ignited tape, Webb severed the fuse. As he knelt there, in order to make certain that the sparks were thoroughly extinguished, a pair of powerful hands gripped him from behind. The desperate Hun, hitherto hidden in the after part of the hold, had thrown himself upon the young officer.

Taken by surprise, although he had been prepared for a frontal attack, Webb found himself stretched upon his back with a burly Teuton kneeling on his chest. The Hun's left hand was pressed over the Sub's mouth, thus effectually preventing him from making a sound, while with his right the fellow groped for the severed portion of the fuse, which, released from the pressure of Webb's boot, had again burst into a splutter of angry sparks.

[Illustration: "ONE BY ONE FIVE GERMANS STUMBLED UP THE LADDER"]

For a seemingly interminable time Webb struggled desperately yet unavailingly. Slowly yet surely the relentless pressure on his chest was telling. Multitudes of lights flashed before his eyes; vainly he gasped for breath, writhing frantically to refill his lungs with air. Dimly he wondered why his men had not come to his assistance. His mind was too confused to remember that it was by his express order that he had forbidden anyone to accompany him upon his hazardous enterprise.

Suddenly the Hun gave vent to a yell of terror. His grasp relaxed. Again he yelled, this time the scream trailing off into a muffled, choking sob. A savage and determined snarl gave the half-dazed Tom an inkling of the identity of his rescuer. It was Laddie.

Unseen and unheard by the Sub the sheep-dog had followed him down the ladder. Eager to face the danger, yet fearing to pass his master's chum, the dog had lurked in the darkness until the German had launched his treacherous attack. In reality the seemingly long interval during which Webb was at the mercy of his assailant was but a few seconds, for with a bound Laddie flew at the Hun's neck.

At the first contact of the animal's teeth in the back of his neck the Hun had yelled. An instant later Laddie had shifted his grip, and was savagely worrying the German's throat. Vainly the man strove to throw off his four-footed enemy. Laddie was not to be denied.

Hearing the sound of the encounter, and guessing rightly that their young officer was in danger, several of the cutter's crew swarmed down into the fore hold. They were barely in time to save the German from death. Even then the dog was reluctant to relax his jaws.

Once more the still fizzling portion of the severed fuse was extinguished. The prisoner was hauled unceremoniously out of the hold, while Webb was assisted to the deck, where in the open air he soon recovered sufficiently to direct operations.

"They're signalling, sir," reported the coxswain, indicating the Portchester Castle, which now lay about a quarter of a mile on the port beam of the Douro. "They want to know what the delay is for."

"Tell them that the vessel's engines are disabled, that an attempt has been made to destroy her by means of bombs, and that we have six prisoners. Ask instructions how to proceed."

A signalman perched upon the guard-rail of the Douro's shattered bridge quickly sent the message. After a brief interval came the order:

"Cutter to be recalled. Bring off prisoners. Inform commanding officer of Douro that we propose to take her in tow."

Without resistance the six Huns were bundled into the boat. The Hun who had attacked Webb in the hold was now quite incapable of so doing, even had he been inclined. With a bandage applied to his lacerated throat he crouched in the stern-sheets, anxiously watching with ill-concealed terror Laddie's fierce-looking blue eyes.

The Portuguese skipper was profuse in his expressions of thanks when Sub-lieutenant Webb took his departure. For the time being all danger was at an end. There was every reason to believe that the Douro would in safety make her destination.

"Very good, carry on," was Captain Staggles's stereotyped remark after Tom had made his report. The Sub saluted and went aft, wondering dimly what manner of man his new skipper could be, since his spoken expression of the Sub's conduct was limited to four words.

For the next twelve hours the Portchester Castle towed the crippled Douro. Late in the afternoon the latter was taken over by a couple of tugs that had been summoned from the Tagus by wireless. Free to resume her interrupted voyage, the British armed merchantman acknowledged the dip of the Portuguese ensign, and was soon reeling off the miles that separated her from Gibraltar.

CHAPTER IV

A Night on the Neutral Ground

"Game for a jaunt into Spanish territory, old man?" enquired Osborne, indicating the hilly ground across the blue waters of the bay. "There's a boat leaving for Algeciras in half an hour."

The Portchester Castle lay off the New Mole at Gibraltar. She had coaled and had taken in stores. A few minor defects were being made good, and she was awaiting orders to proceed. Leave had been given to the starboard watch that afternoon, and, having nothing in the way of duty to perform, Osborne had made a tempting suggestion to his chum Tom Webb.

"Rather, I'm on," replied the Sub. "There's leave for officers till eight bells, I believe."

"Yes, but we'll have to be back well before that time," observed Osborne. "The gates of the fortress close at sunset, remember."

Tom Webb during the last few days had made good use of his time at Gib., but, he argued, being ashore on that bold, rocky promontory was not exactly being abroad. He was still on British territory. Hence his eagerness to set foot upon foreign soil.

Soon the two chums, in undress uniforms, were picking their way through the narrow streets of Gibraltar, dodging among the motley crowd that comprises the populace of the place—Spaniards, Greeks, Moors, Arabs, and "Rock Scorps", with a liberal leavening of British seamen, marines, and soldiers.

"That fellow seems to take a lot of interest in us," remarked Webb as the two officers found themselves on board the little steamer bound for Algeciras.

"Let him," declared Osborne inconsequently. He had had too long an acquaintance with foreign ports to trouble about the curious looks and attentions of the inhabitants. "Which one do you refer to? That Spaniard with the piebald side-whiskers?"

"No, the johnny leaning against the ventilator," replied the Sub. "Looks as if he wants a permanent prop, and his hands seem sewn up in his pockets."

Osborne glanced over his shoulder. Instantly the individual in question feigned interest in the smoke issuing from the steamer's funnel, until the effort of craning his neck was too much of a physical strain, and he again looked curiously at the two naval officers.

He was a man of about thirty, full-faced and of a sleek and oily complexion. His dark chestnut hair was closely cropped. He sported a tuft of side-whiskers on each cheek and a heavy moustache. His costume consisted of a dirty white shirt, ill-cut trousers, and straw-plaited shoes round his waist was a gaudily coloured scarf that might or might not have hidden a knife. On the back of his head he wore a broad-rimmed straw hat with a band of vivid yellow, into which was stuck a bunch of peacock's feathers.

"A picturesque-looking villain!" commented Webb.

"A typical Spaniard, that's all," Osborne reassured him. "We'll have a few dozen of 'em crowding round directly we land, you know. Every man jack will offer his services as a guide, philosopher, and friend."

Apparently the fellow thought it worth while to take time by the forelock, since his interest in the British officers was reciprocated. Removing his hands from his pockets he came forward, and giving an elaborate sweep with his hat he tendered a dirty piece of pasteboard.

"My card, señores!" he exclaimed. "At your service. Show you everyzing in Algeciras. Blow me tight, I will."

The last sentence, of which he seemed particularly proud, had been picked up from a British Tommy. The Spaniard considered it to be the hall-mark of correct English.

Osborne took the proffered card. On it was printed: "Alfonzo y Guzman Perez, Qualified Guide and Interpreter".

"We don't require a guide," said Osborne.

Señor Perez smiled benignly.

"P'raps ze senores get into ze mischief wizout a Spanish caballero who through misfortune is obliged to accept ze monies for his services. You officers are from ze war-ship Paragon?"

"No, from the——" began Webb. Then he brought himself up with a round turn.

"From ze——?" repeated the Spaniard. But Tom was not to be caught napping a second time.

"Sorry, Señor Perez," interrupted Osborne firmly. "We don't want you. Nothing doing this trip."

The steamer was now making fast to the little pier. Without paying further attention to the over-attentive Spaniard the young officers landed, and, as Osborne had foretold, were surrounded by a mob of frantically gesticulating natives.

"Not much of a place," declared Webb. "Horribly dirty, in fact. Can't we get out into the country?"

"We could," replied his chum. "In fact we could give the steamer a miss on the return journey."

"How?"

"By walking round the Bay and getting back to Gib. by means of the Neutral Ground. It's a tidy step, but we've heaps of time."

"Good idea!" declared Webb enthusiastically. "Let's get along out of this."

By degrees the mob of undesirables diminished. The pace set by two mad Englishmen was far too hot. A few, however, still hung on, their appeals for alms giving place to abuse at the callousness of the British officers.

"Wish we had Laddie with us," remarked Webb. "He'd soon make the crowd take to their heels."

"Couldn't be done," said Osborne. "I thought of it, but there are the local quarantine restrictions to be taken into consideration. Also, there'd be a risk of the dog being shot by the Spanish Customs guards on the Neutral Ground. They're dead nuts on dogs."

"Why?" asked Tom.

"Because dogs are largely used by smugglers to run contraband into Gib. Of course, I'm sorry, but it can't be helped."

At last the Spaniards dropped behind and the chums were free of any embarrassing society. They, too, were glad to ease down, for the day was extremely sultry. There were bunches of delicious grapes to be had without let or hindrance, and altogether the two chums were beginning to enjoy themselves.

"How much farther?" enquired Tom at length.

Osborne consulted his watch.

"By Jove, we must look sharp!" he said. "We've a tidy step yet. In fact, we haven't got as far as Mayorga."

The road, hitherto by no means good, had deteriorated into a rough track. Progress, too, was impeded by several inlets, which meant considerable detours inland. Consequently it was late in the afternoon when, hot and tired, the young officers limped into the village of Mayorga, some five miles from the "Lines" of Gibraltar.

"I vote we get a carriage of sorts," suggested Osborne. "We'll be properly dished if we don't. My heel's galled, and it's still some way to go."

Making the best of his limited knowledge of Spanish, Osborne contrived to hire, for the sum of five pesetas, a ramshackle conveyance with solid wooden wheels and drawn by a couple of oxen. It was the only vehicle available, but the villainous-looking driver assured his hirers that it was a swift means of transport.

The cart set off in excellent style—"Under forced draught," Osborne explained—but before it was clear of the village the swaying, jolting conveyance had settled down to a funeral pace. When Osborne expostulated, the driver stopped to offer a lengthy explanation of the dangerous character of the road, promising to make up for the lost time directly the comparatively level Neutral Ground was reached.

Anxiously the Lieutenant consulted his watch, glanced at the setting sun, and mentally measured the distance between him and the frowning Rock, which appeared much nearer than it actually was.

Suddenly the cart gave an extra heavy lurch. The oxen stumbled; while, to the accompaniment of a rending crash and the angry oaths of the driver, the off-side wheel was wrenched from its axle. The next instant Osborne and Webb found themselves lying in the long rank grass by the side of the cart-track.

"Excelsior, old bird!" exclaimed the Lieutenant as the twain recovered their feet. "Look alive, there's no time to be lost!"

Paying the Spaniard his five pesetas, although he had not completed his part of the contract, the two officers hastened towards their goal, regardless of the forcible demands of the driver that his late fares would contribute towards the damage done to the crazy vehicle.

Nearer and nearer came the "Lines", until the Neutral Ground was less than four hundred yards away. Then, to the chums' consternation, a gun boomed forth in the still evening air. It was the signal that until daybreak the gates of Gibraltar were closed so that none should enter or depart.

"A fine old business!" declared Osborne. "It's no use going on. We'd stand a chance of being fired upon by the Spanish guards, and a still greater one of being winged by the British sentries. They were alert enough in pre-war days, and you can bet your bottom dollar that they'll be doubly sharp now."

"Suppose the best thing to do is to return to Mayorga and get a bed at the inn," suggested Webb. "My word, there'll be a row for overstaying our leave!"

"No Spanish inn for me," said the Lieutenant with conviction. "Verminous holes, that's what they are. No, we'll camp out, and imagine it's the good old Scout days."

"Might do worse," agreed Tom with his cheery smile. "So the sooner we pitch upon a suitable spot the better. It will be dark in another ten minutes."

The site selected was a sandy hollow fringed with long coarse grass, and open to the east. In that direction lay the Mediterranean, its shores being separated from the officers' bivouac by a distance of about twenty yards. To the south the summit of the towering heights of the Rock could just be discerned, above the ridge of sand that enclosed the hollow on three sides.

Thoroughly tired with their exertions, the chums were soon fast asleep. Then Webb awoke with a start and a stifled exclamation on his lips. It seemed as if he had slept but a few minutes. In reality six hours had elapsed.

He could hear voices conferring in undertones—voices unfamiliar, and speaking in a foreign language.

For some moments Webb lay still. He remembered where he was, and that it was not at all strange for men to be conversing in an unknown tongue. What he remarked was the fact that they should choose an isolated spot in the small hours of the morning to engage upon what was evidently a secret confabulation.

Cautiously the Sub raised himself on his elbows and peered through the long grass. In the bright starlight he made a strange discovery. There were three men: two in the uniform that bore a strong resemblance to that of the British Navy; the third was none other than the chums' would-be philosopher and guide, Señor Alfonzo y Guzman Perez.

CHAPTER V

The Encounter with a Spy

With hardly a sound Sub-lieutenant Webb made his way to the side of his sleeping chum, and roused him effectually and silently by the simple expedient of grasping him firmly by the hand.

"'Ssh!" cautioned Tom.

Side by side the two officers crawled to a place of vantage from which the three men could be kept under observation.

"By Jove!" thought Osborne. "Two German officers and our old pal Alfonzo. Jabbering away in German, too; and I don't understand the lingo. Now if they were to try Spanish——"

"Ach, friend Georgeos Hymettus!" exclaimed the senior Hun officer in execrable English. "Your German a disgrace is. You kultur have neglected. We confused are in your explanations. Therefore, since we talk not Spanish nor Greek it will be more easy to talk in der accursed English. You say you no haf der list of ships?"

"No," replied Perez, or, to give him his true name, Hymettus. "It no safe. Me no trust ze writing. Carry all here," and he tapped his forehead significantly. "S'pose me caught and nodings found in ze writing. Zen, nodings doin' as ze Englise say."

Thereupon, with great fidelity the Greek spy named the British war-ships on the station and their probable destinations. One exception was the Portchester Castle. Either the name had slipped his memory, or else he was ignorant of her presence in the Bay of Gibraltar. He then proceeded to detail the names of British and foreign merchantmen at Gib. and their probable date of departure, which information the Germans jotted down in a notebook.

An off-shore wind, rustling across the sand-dunes, rendered a considerable portion of the following conversation inaudible, but the chums could see that a sum of paper money changed hands.

"U-boat officers!" whispered Webb, taking advantage of the hush of the grass. "Game to tackle them?"

"Yes, I'm game," replied Osborne, "but it can't be done yet. I'll explain later. Steady!"

The spy and the Huns were on the point of separating.

"Till Friday," cautioned the senior German officer. "Meanwhile tell Gonales dat we be off Alminecar on Wednesday, an' dat we vos have more petrol. Leben Sie wohl, Georgeos. Do not from dis place move make until twenty minutes."

The Huns moved off diagonally in the direction of the shore. Before they had gone very far two greatcoated seamen jumped to their feet and saluted. Osborne, then, was wise in not attempting to tackle the officers, since there were members of the submarine's boat's crew within easy hailing distance. Silently the Germans pushed off in a collapsible canvas boat, and were rowed seaward until they were lost to sight and hearing of the British officers.

True to his instructions, Georgeos Hymettus remained at the spot where he had parted with his uniformed confederates. He was stealthily counting the notes he had received as the price of his espionage, as if to make sure that he had not been cheated by his Teutonic paymasters. Rapidly Osborne revolved the situation in his mind. With the assistance of his chum the capture of the solitary spy ought to present no special difficulties; but, having laid him by the heels, the question arose, what could they do with him? The spy was in Spanish territory, and, if the facts became known, his arrest constituted a breach of neutrality. Again, between them and the Neutral Ground were the Spanish Lines, through which it would be almost a matter of impossibility to conduct the captive without detection by the Civil Guards. On the other hand it would be a thankless task to give the Greek over to the Spanish authorities. Not only would it mean delay, when it was imperative that Osborne and his chum should return to the ship as soon as practicable, but the chances were that the Spanish officials would refuse to keep the fellow under arrest, since he had been merely engaged in conversation with two subjects of a friendly power. In Spain, especially in the southern part, the officials are notoriously pro-German, having succumbed to the wiles and pecuniary charms of the Hun agents.

"I'll risk it," decided the Lieutenant. "Even if we don't succeed in planting him down in Gib. it will give him a rare fright."

He pointed towards the unsuspecting Greek. Webb nodded. Stealthily the twain advanced, treading on the soft sand and avoiding contact with the dry driftwood that abounded in the grass.

Without warning Georgeos Hymettus turned and saw two forms approaching through the gloom of the starlit night. He took to his heels, doubtless imagining that he was about to be attacked by some of the numerous robbers who, under the guise of beggars, infest the countryside.

Swift of foot though the Greek might be, the two Englishmen were swifter. Before the fugitive had covered a hundred yards he realized that escape by means of flight seemed hopeless.

He was almost on the point of stopping and feigning surrender when Osborne's foot tripped over a projecting stone, sending the Lieutenant sprawling in the grass. Webb, springing aside to avoid the prostrate form of his chum, shouted to the spy to give in.

Promptly the Greek held both hands, with the fingers outspread, high above his head.

"That's sensible," declared Tom, and incautiously he turned to see how his companion was progressing. Like a flash of lightning the spy's right hand sought his voluminous sash, and grasping a long, keen-bladed knife he slashed viciously at the Sub's chest.

Springing backwards Webb avoided what would otherwise have been a fatal blow. As it was, the sharp steel ripped his coat from lapel to waist, while so much energy had Georgeos put into the blow that his arm swung outwards behind him.

The Sub was quick to counter. Throwing himself upon the ground, he gripped his antagonist by the ankles. With a crash the fellow measured his length on his back, while Webb, following up the attack, seized him by the throat.

Over and over the two rolled, Hymettus striking blindly with his knife, while Tom, shifting one hand, strove to pin the spy's right arm to his side and render him incapable of dealing further dangerous, but fortunately ineffectual, blows.

By this time Osborne had regained his feet, and was awaiting an opportunity of coming to his chum's assistance. It was no easy matter, for in the starlight it was hard to distinguish betwixt friend and foe as they writhed and rolled in a close embrace.

The glint of steel prompted Osborne to take the risk. At any chance moment a thrust might bury the weapon in Webb's body. Both combatants were obviously becoming exhausted. Their quick breaths sounded like those of a pair of dogs spent after running a long distance, while, in addition, the Greek was snarling like a wild beast.

Grasping a favourable moment, Osborne took a flying kick at the knife as for a brief instant it paused in mid-air. The weapon flew a dozen yards, the bright blade twirling and scintillating in the dim light ere it vanished from sight in the soft sand.

With the loss of the weapon the Greek ceased to offer resistance. Upon that knife he had relied to win clear; it was the mainstay of his defence.

"What you was do?" he whined in broken English, for he had already recognized his assailants. "Me harmless Spanish caballero."

"We'll see about that," retorted Osborne. "The question is: are you coming quietly or are you not?"

"Where?" asked the spy.

"To Gibraltar."

"What for ze reason?"

The Lieutenant thought it best to ignore the question. With Webb's assistance he set the spy upon his feet, securely bound his arms behind his back by means of his shawl, and, cutting off a portion of the latter, effectually gagged the prisoner.

Osborne listened intently. There was nothing to show that the Spanish Civil Guards had been alarmed by the noise of the struggle. Everything seemed quiet. There was a fair chance of being able to pass the captive through the Spanish Lines without detection, especially as it was now close upon dawn and the sentries apt, in consequence, to relax their vigilance.

All went well until the two officers and their prisoner were within fifty yards of one of the guard-houses that mark the termination of Spanish territory and the commencement of the Neutral Ground. There were no signs of any of the sentries; and Osborne was beginning to congratulate himself upon the successful issue of his attempt, when a cock-hatted, gaudily uniformed man sprung seemingly from the ground.

Levelling his rifle he called upon the British officers to halt, following up this order by a warning shout to others of his comrades within the block-house.

"It's all right," declared Osborne in his halting Spanish. "We're bringing back a deserter."

"Do not be in a hurry," was the exasperating reply. "Have you any papers bearing the Alcalde's signature for the prisoner's removal?"

The thought flashed across the Lieutenant's mind that it was more than likely that none of the Spanish guards could read. Education in Spain, he remembered, is in a very backward state, barely ten per cent of the population being able to read or write. As president of the mess on board the Portchester Castle he had in his possession several receipted bills. The most imposing of these he produced for the Civil Guard's inspection. At the same time he noticed that others of the Spaniards were about to remove the gag from the spy's mouth.

"Get them to hang on a minute, old man," he exclaimed, addressing Webb. Then tendering the document to the inquisitive soldier, he ostentatiously displayed a handful of coins.

The natural cupidity of the man was unable to resist the bait. "Palm oil" would have done the trick had not the spy contrived at that moment to slip the bonds that secured his wrists. With a deft movement he produced the bundle of English Treasury notes that had been paid him by the German submarine officers, at the same time fumbling with the knot that held his gag in position.

Before Webb, whose attention had been centred upon restraining the rest of the Civil Guards, could prevent it, the spy had freed himself from the gag, and was protesting in voluble Spanish that he was an Andalusian who had been kidnapped by English brigands.

Hopelessly outbidden, for the Greek was doling out pound notes in a most lavish fashion, Osborne realized that he had been beaten at his own game. The climax came when Georgeos Hymettus scattered a handful of paper money in the dim light, and while the Spanish troops were scrambling for the spoil he took to his heels.

Since it was useless to follow, Osborne and Webb watched him till he vanished in the darkness. Then silently they waited until the morning gun from the citadel announced that the fortress of Gibraltar was open until the setting of the sun.

"A pretty pickle!" remarked Osborne. "Nothing done, your undress uniform ripped to ribbons, the spy gone, and we ourselves have to face the music for having overstayed our leave. Rotten, I call it!"

"Don't know so much about that'," remarked Webb, the cheery optimist. "We've discovered something that will be of interest to the authorities, and, after all, we've had quite an exciting adventure. Some night, eh, what?"

CHAPTER VI

The Dummy Periscope

Captain Staggles interviewed the two delinquents separately. The skipper was one of those men who are apt to bluster and browbeat whenever occasion offered. It was his idea of imparting discipline. Popularity he scoffed at. He was, in short, one of a fortunately rare type of officer of the old school, who at the outbreak of the war had been once more employed on the active list. To his disappointment Captain Staggles had not received a shore appointment, owing to a lack of sufficient influence; and after filling various stopgap billets he had been given the armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle, whose complement consisted entirely of Royal Naval Reserve and Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve officers and men.

Unfortunately Captain Staggles did not possess sufficient sagacity to realize that there must be a difference between a crew, trained for years in proper Navy fashion, and a body of men drawn from the merchant service. In both cases good material was present, but one had been developed to meet certain requirements, the other had not.

"The point is," thundered Captain Staggles to Jack Osborne; "the point is, sir, you had to be on duty on board. You were not. You, instead, try to bamboozle me with some cock-and-bull yarn about a spy. Now, what have you got to say?"

"I take it, sir, that you insinuate I'm not speaking the truth," said Osborne quietly, controlling his indignation with a strong effort. "And that without giving me an opportunity of proving my statement."

"I take it, sir," mimicked the skipper, "that you don't realize that you've overstayed your leave?"

"Unfortunately, no, sir," replied Osborne. "It was my fault entirely that Mr. Webb was in the same predicament."

"Very well," exclaimed Captain Staggles, raising his voice to a regular roar. "Now, don't do it again. Clear out, sir."

"But concerning the spy, sir?" began the Lieutenant.

"Don't want to hear any more about it," bellowed the skipper. "Thank your lucky stars you've got off so lightly. Leave my cabin, sir."

Osborne saluted and withdrew. On the half-deck he encountered Webb, who was awaiting his turn "on the carpet".

"Reprimanded," announced Osborne laconically. "The captain won't listen to my explanation. Better luck, old man."

But Sub-lieutenant Webb fared no better. His attempt to throw a light upon the night's work met with an equally curt reception.

"I believe the skipper's been drinking," said Webb to his chum after his interview.

"Since you mention it, I agree," said Osborne gravely. "I've known it for some time, but I didn't like to give my chief away. We've struck hard lines in the matter of a skipper, Tom. You see, our temporal future lies entirely in his hands. If he sends in an unfavourable report upon our conduct and abilities, we're done as far as the Service is concerned. There is no appeal. However, we must carry on and do our duty."

Osborne had previously said that Captain Staggles was a keen officer. He had been; but retirement had blunted his zest and rusted his abilities. Still rankling under the mistaken idea of injustice at having been refused a shore appointment, the skipper had lost interest in his work. He was content to rely mainly upon the stereotyped order "Carry on", and a non-committal "Very good" when addressing his subordinate officers. His formerly active brain, fuddled by intemperance, was no longer capable of controlling the destinies of a ship's company. Had he been permitted to remain in command the result might have been fatal to the efficiency of the ship. Fortunately it was otherwise.

By some means the story of the adventure of Osborne and his chum reached the ears of the Senior Naval Officer on the Station. He immediately applied for a report from Captain Staggles, and the latter had to admit that he knew nothing of the details of the occurrence. The result was that Osborne and Webb were sent for, and, under severe cross-examination, had to reveal the facts of their interview with their commanding officer, and how the latter had refused to hear the report concerning the spy.

Two hours later Captain Staggles was ordered to undergo a medical examination and, found unfit for duty, was sent to hospital; the Lieutenant-commander of the Portchester Castle was given temporary command pending a fresh appointment from the Admiralty.

Jimmy M'Bride, Captain Staggles's successor, was a man of totally different character and disposition. There was a humorous side to his nature that the former skipper lacked. He knew his job thoroughly, regarding the men under him as something different from mere machines. He expected a high standard—and got it; not by aggressive methods, but by example. He was always ready to consider a grievance, but woe betide the incautious man who attempted to impose upon him.

Already precious time had been lost, but M'Bride delayed no longer in acting upon the information that Osborne and Webb had gained from the Greek spy. Since the Portchester Castle had not figured in the list of ships supplied to the kapitan of the German submarine, the armed merchant-cruiser was detailed to take the place of a large tramp, the s.s. Two-Step, which was under orders for Marseilles.

Just before sundown the Portchester Castle was, roughly, twenty miles east of Gibraltar. It was a calm, glorious evening. Not a ripple disturbed the placid surface of the Mediterranean, save the long, ever-diverging swell in the wake of the slowly moving vessel, for in the rôle of merchant-man the Portchester Castle was steaming at a bare fifteen knots. Three miles away and broad on the starboard beam was the tramp, flying the red ensign. Already by means of the International Code she had "made her number". Her course was approximately parallel to that of the Portchester Castle, although her speed was less by a good five knots.

"Spot anything?" enquired Osborne of his chum, as Webb kept his binoculars focused at something almost midway and ahead of the two vessels.

"Yes," replied the Sub. "A periscope, or I'm a greenhorn. Here you are, Osborne, right in line with the foremast shrouds."

"By Jove, you're right!" assented the Lieutenant. "I can see it distinctly. Now who is she going for—the Two-Step or us?"

"The Two-Step, I fancy," replied Webb. "It looks to me as if the U-boat's periscope is trained in that direction."

Quickly the guns were manned. A warning signal, "'Ware submarine on your port bow", was sent to the tramp. The suppressed excitement grew as the Portchester Castle drew nearer to her as yet unsuspecting foe.

M'Bride was on the bridge at the time. Deliberately he delayed the order to open fire. The gun-layer could, he knew, easily knock away that pole-like object, but that was not enough. The U-boat, even when deprived of her "eyes", could dive and seek shelter until the danger had passed. Not until the submarine showed herself above the surface could a "knock-out" blow be delivered, unless the Portchester Castle could approach and ram her antagonist before the latter had time to submerge to a sufficient depth.

"Look!" exclaimed Osborne. "She's actually going to attempt to ram. Well, of all the cool cheek!"

The Lieutenant was correct in his assertion, for the plucky tramp, starboarding helm, was bearing down upon the vertical spar that denoted the presence of the otherwise hidden danger.

This manoeuvre interested Webb hardly at all. His attention was centred upon the periscope. For some time he had been keeping it under observation through his marine glasses. There was something fishy about it. He had seen partly submerged periscopes before, and they had never behaved in that erratic fashion.

This one was stationary as regards direction. No feather-like spray denoted its passage through the water. It certainly was not forging ahead. It was, however, rolling erratically, its centre of semi-rotation being but a few inches beneath the surface. The periscope of a submarine, if it were inclining in a vertical plane at all, would have a very different movement, protruding as it was from the comparatively huge hull of the vessel.

"It's a dummy periscope," he announced.

"Sure of it, Mr. Webb?" asked Captain M'Bride.

"Positive, sir."

The skipper of the Portchester Castle did not hesitate. A warning blast from the armed merchant-cruiser's syren was followed by the peremptory signal, "Go astern instantly", while the white ensign hoisted aft imparted the necessary authority to the Two-Step.

An exchange of signals followed, with the result that the tramp forged ahead once more, and, altering her course slightly, passed quite a couple of cables' lengths from the sinister spar that bobbed lazily above the sea.

"And there are half a dozen destroyers leaving Gib. to-day," remarked Captain M'Bride. "If they had sighted this decoy one of them would have gone at it like a bull at a gate. We must risk it, I suppose. Away first cutter's and whaler's crews!"

The Portchester Castle had to slow down to enable the boats to be lowered. This in itself was a risky operation, since it was quite possible that a real hostile submarine might be lurking in the vicinity, awaiting the opportunity to discharge a torpedo at the almost stationary target afforded by the armed merchantman. Nevertheless the risk had to be undertaken. It fell within the scope of the duties of the Royal Navy in its gigantic task of rendering the maritime highways as safe as possible for the sea-borne commerce of Britain, her Allies, and of neutral nations.

Tom Webb was in charge of the cutter, his brother Sub-lieutenant, Dicky Haynes, having command of the whaler. The moment the two boats cast off, the Portchester Castle pelted off at full speed, maintaining an erratic course to minimize possible danger until the two Sub-lieutenants had carried out their hazardous investigations.

Each boat had two hundred yards of grass rope trailing astern, the other ends being made fast to the bight of a flexible steel wire, which, by means of a couple of buoys, was permitted to sink to a depth of one fathom beneath the surface. Steadily the boats approached the dummy periscope, the cutter passing it to port and the whaler to starboard at a distance of twenty yards.

Presently Webb glanced astern. The towed buoys were now quite close to the upright spar.

"Give way for all you're worth, lads!" he ordered, while Haynes shouted a similar encouragement to the whaler's crew.

The strain on the grass rope increased. Then with a terrific roar a column of water shot two hundred feet into the air from the spot where the dummy periscope had been.

"We're much too knowing birds to be caught by that sort of chaff," remarked a member of the cutter's crew. The man was right. Had any passing vessel rammed the tempting-looking periscope she would have found herself bumping over a couple of mines that, with fiendish ingenuity, the Huns had lashed to the decoy in the hope that an inquisitive foe would be sent to the bottom. The trick was an old one, but it added to the complication of perils which the British seamen have to face hourly in the frequently underrated task of preserving the millions of inhabitants of the United Kingdom from the horrors of famine.

CHAPTER VII

Rammed

The echoes of the explosion had scarce died away when the Portchester Castle turned and steamed back to pick up her two boats. She was still about two miles off, and nearly three times that distance from the receding Two-Step.

The crews of the cutter and the whaler were busily engaged in coiling away the undamaged grass ropes. The connecting span had, of course, been blown to bits by the detonation. Both boats had to be baled out, for a quantity of water hurled skywards by the exploded mines had fallen into the little craft. Webb's command was flooded to a depth of a couple of inches over the bottom boards, while the whaler had considerably more water in her.

"Look astern, sir!" exclaimed the coxswain of the cutter.

The Sub glanced across his shoulder. The sea in the vicinity had now almost regained its mirror-like aspect, but in the direction indicated by the petty officer its surface was rippled by a tell-tale swell, as if some large object were moving slowly at a considerable depth.

"Stand by, lads!" ordered Webb. "Oars!"

The blades had barely touched the water when, at a distance of less than five yards from the cutter, appeared the twin periscopes of a submarine—this time the genuine article.

The U-boat, for such she was, had been lurking in the vicinity of the decoy. Her kapitan had seen the approach of the Portchester Castle and the tramp, and feeling confident that the booby periscope would be noticed, had remained to watch the effect of the Englanders' curiosity.

On hearing the explosion he wrongly concluded that the experiment had not been a successful one, as far as the inquisitive vessel was concerned; and after a brief interval he ordered the U-boat to the surface, with the intention of gloating over the sinking of yet another strafed English ship.

"Back port—pull starboard!" ordered Webb.

Almost in her own length the cutter swung round until she lay broadside on to the appearing periscopes, which were still forging ahead and momentarily showing higher and higher above the surface.

Drawing his revolver the Sub took steady aim at almost point-blank range. It was practically impossible to miss. The mirrors on the top of the periscope were shattered. The next instant, the foremost metal pipe of the now blinded submarine was grinding against the cutter's gunwale.

"Cutter ahoy!" shouted Haynes.

[Illustration: "THE SUBMARINE WAS NOW IN AN AWKWARD PLIGHT"]

The whaler was now a hundred yards off, and the cutter lay between her and the still submerged U-boat. Haynes had heard the double report of the revolver shots, and was at a loss to account for Webb's seemingly inexplicable act.

"Come alongside as hard as you can!" shouted Webb; then addressing the bowman of the cutter he ordered: "A couple of hitches with your painter, man."

The bowman acted promptly. In a few seconds the cutter had swung round and was being urged at a steady rate through the water with her painter made fast to the foremost of the damaged periscopes.

Haynes, too, had now grasped the situation. The whaler, urged at the greatest speed by the rowers, was quickly on the spot. Her painter was then secured to the aftermost periscope.

The two Subs were now keenly on the alert for further developments. The point to consider was whether the U-boat would attempt to continue to ascend, or make a frantic effort to submerge completely. In the former case both boats would have to be trimmed by the head to counteract the lifting power of the invisible submarine; in the latter case all hands, with the exception of the bowman, would have to crowd aft in order to impart the greatest buoyancy to the for'ard portion of the boats.

The submarine was now in an awkward plight. In spite of the fact that her displacement was something in the neighbourhood of six hundred tons she had little reserve of buoyancy, represented by the weight of water in her ballast tanks. Against this she was hampered by the two boats, the cutter weighing a little over a ton without her crew and gear, and the whaler supplying a dead weight of nearly half that of her consort.

The U-boat dare not rise. To do so, even if she were capable of the fact with the two "millstones" literally hanging round her neck, she would be running an unknown risk, since she was unaware of the nature of the obstruction. Nor could she dive with safety. Before she could admit sufficient water ballast to make her heavy enough to swamp the two boats, the strain would wrench the periscopes from the submarine's hull. In spite of the intricate valves, the wrench imparted to her mechanism would make it an impossibility to prevent quantities of water entering the interior, and send the U-boat down for good and all.

"We've got her, old man!" explained Haynes joyously.

"And she's got us, too," replied Webb. "Sort of marine game of beggar my neighbour."

Haynes was certainly right, and so was his brother officer. Until the Portchester Castle arrived to render assistance the struggle looked like being a dead heat, unless——

Yes, Webb knew that there was an "unless"—a mighty unpleasant one. There was a possibility that the U-boat's skipper would not surrender. Rather he would explode the war-heads of the torpedoes still within the hull, and send the submarine to instant destruction, at the same time involving the annihilation of the two boats and their crews.

At all costs Webb determined to "stand fast", but it was with mingled feelings of elation and apprehension that he regarded the shadowy outlines of his "capture", as the enormous hull showed dimly at twelve feet beneath the surface. Air bubbles broke upon the slightly agitated waves as the U-boat strove either to "sound" or break away and rise awash. At intervals her twin screws churned the water, sometimes going ahead and sometimes astern, with the result that the cutter and the whaler crashed gunwale to gunwale half a dozen times in twice as many minutes. Only the skilful and strenuous endeavours of their crews prevented the strongly-built sides from collapsing like shattered egg-shells.

All this while the Portchester Castle was bearing down upon the boats. Captain M'Bride knew that something unusual was taking place. The erratic movements of the two craft told him that, but he was at a loss to understand the reason.

"Cutter ahoy!" came a hail through a megaphone from the armed merchantman's bridge.

"What are you foul of?"

One of the boat's crew, producing two handflags, dexterously balanced himself upon one of the thwarts.

"Hooked a submarine, sir," he reported.

"How does she lie?" was the skipper's next question.

"Bows away from you, sir; her stern's swinging on to your port bow."

This knowledge was of importance, for, although the U-boat was blind, it was just possible that her crew might discharge a torpedo on the off chance of the missile getting home.

"Stand by to cast off roundly," came the next order from the Portchester Castle. "I'm going to ram her aft."

"Now for it," thought Tom Webb. "If we're not in the ditch within the next fifty seconds I'll be very much mistaken."

The Sub had barely expressed himself thus, when with a quivering jerk the U-boat shot above the surface, exposing the whole of the after part of the conning-tower, although the fore part was still beneath the surface. She was so down by the head that the blades of her stern hydroplanes were visible. Realizing that it was touch-and-go, the German skipper had released the emergency metal keel with which these craft are equipped.

Owing to their short painters, the cutter and the whaler were swung in close alongside the rounded hull, their bows hoisted clear of the water by the terrific strain upon their bow ropes.

Several of their crews had been flung upon the bottom boards and stern-sheets, while streams of water from the U-boat's deck threatened to swamp the frail craft alongside.

Instantly the after hatch of the submarine was flung open, and, headed by a stout, fair-haired leutnant, the German crew armed with revolvers began to pour through the narrow opening on to the U-boat's decks.

There was no indication on their part of a wish to surrender. It was evidently going to be a hand-to-hand scrap 'twixt British and Germans.

The submarine's officer had taken in part of the situation at a glance. Shouting to a couple of hands to cut the painters, he led the rest of the men in a headlong rush towards the two boats, the Huns opening a hot but erratic fire from their small-arms. Unfortunately for him the leutnant had not noticed in his haste the Portchester Castle's approach, until a warning shout from one of the Germans revealed the immediate danger.

The attack stopped immediately. Throwing down their revolvers the Huns raised their hands above their heads, shouting "Mercy, kamerad!" at the fullest pitch of their lungs, some directing their appeal towards the British seamen in the boats, others towards the vengeful merchant-cruiser.

"Cast off!" shouted Webb. "Back, men, for all you're worth."

Deftly the bowman of the cutter severed the painter. With a flop the boat's bows slid down the bulging sides of the submarine, and, backed by the vigorous efforts of half a dozen rowers, drew away from the doomed pirate.

No human effort on the part of Captain M'Bride could now avert the work of destruction that the Portchester Castle had already attempted. It was impossible to check the momentum of thousands of tons of metal, moving at fifteen knots through the water; nor could a change of helm be effected in time to allow the ship to glide harmlessly astern. Hulling the U-boat's side at a distance of about fifty feet from her stern, the Portchester Castle's sharp bows cut completely through the doomed craft. The after part sank like a stone; the major portion rolling over until the top of the conning-tower dipped beneath the surface, floated for nearly thirty seconds, emitting air, oil, and petrol, and disappeared from view.

This much Tom Webb saw; then in front of his field of vision appeared the towering hull of the armed merchantman as she tore past. Caught between the vortex caused by the sunken U-boat and the sharp-crested wave from her destroyer's bow, the cutter was completely overset, and in the midst of a smother of foam the Sub found himself swimming for dear life.

CHAPTER VIII

"In the Ditch"

It was one of the rare occasions when Tom Webb could not carry out the Scout's maxim, "Keep smiling"—at least outwardly. On being slung out of the boat he had been temporarily winded by the edge of the gunwale buffeting his ribs. He had sunk to a considerable depth, and just before he regained the surface he had been compelled to swallow a mouthful—not of honest sea water, but of some vile liquid of which petrol and oil formed component parts. Fortunately the coating of oil on the surface was not thick, otherwise his chance of reappearing would have been very remote.

"Here you are, sir; clap hold of this," exclaimed a deep voice close to his ear, and a large grating was thrust into his grasp.

Rubbing the water from his eyes with his disengaged hand, Webb saw that his benefactor was the coxswain of the cutter. Half a dozen or more men were swimming about, some supporting their less-gifted comrades who were unable to swim.

Owing to the presence of oil the turmoil of broken water had already subsided. Ten yards away the cutter was floating lazily upon the long swell, keel uppermost and with five or six men holding on, or else somewhat foolishly attempting to clamber upon her upturned bilges. Still farther away was the whaler, waterlogged and with only her bow and stern-posts showing above the surface. Quite half a mile off, and still carrying way in spite of having reversed her engines, was the cause of the disaster to the boats.

"Stick it, men," exclaimed Webb encouragingly. "They'll soon pick us up."

At which information, unnecessary since the Portchester Castle's intention was obvious, the men gave a cheer. Most of them had been "in the ditch" before, and in far more hazardous conditions. This immersion in a warm sea and on a calm day was of the nature of an aquatic picnic, while with the prospect of a speedy rescue none of the men thought it worth while to sacrifice his boots.

The Sub found himself counting the heads of the survivors. Thank God! the number tallied with that of the complete boat's crew. In fact, he was not sure but that there seemed to be more.

"Any casualties?" he enquired of the coxswain, who was lazily swimming close to his young officer.

"Bill Evans, sir; stopped a bullet. Right shoulder, sir. They've got him in tow alongside the cutter. Nothing more."

The coxswain did not think it necessary to inform Webb that he himself had a little memento of the brief scrap with the U-boat's crew, in the shape of a wound just above the left knee. In the water it was hardly noticeable.

The whaler's people, too, seemed to be in the best of spirits. They had closed in around the waterlogged craft, each man gripping the partly submerged gunwale and lustily singing one of the latest ditties, just to emphasize the fact that they were very far from being down-hearted. With them were five or six survivors of the U-boat. Enmity had disappeared, the whaler's men treating their companions in misfortune with the utmost good humour.

Presently Webb felt a hand clutch at his shoulder.

"Here, come off it!" exclaimed the coxswain.

"If you do want a leg-up, don't put your dirty paws on our officer."

The Sub turned his head. Behind him was a German seaman, obviously distressed and in difficulties. He had been holding on to an oar, but the buoyancy of the wood was insufficient to keep his head above the surface.

"Can you swim?" asked Webb.

"Nein," spluttered the Hun. "Me vos no swim——"

"Then hang on to this," continued the Sub, pushing the broad end of the grating within reach of the German. The fellow seized it without a word of thanks.

"Most amiable-looking blighter," commented Webb, regarding the heavy, sullen features of the submariner. "Wonder if you were one of the crowd that jeered at the crew of that torpedoed Italian liner the other day? Shouldn't be at all surprised, but I suppose I must not ask awkward questions. Hallo, what's wrong now?"

A yell of rage attracted the young officer's attention. One of the Germans, either rendered temporarily insane by the fate of the U-boat, or else filled to overflowing with the gospel of "Gott strafe England", had made a sudden and furious attack upon one of the whaler's crew, who a minute or so previously had generously made room for the half-drowned Hun.

The latter, having regained his breath, had drawn a knife and had made several ineffectual attempts to sheathe the blade in the British seaman's body.

Jack Tar was quite equal to the occasion, although interrupted in the midst of "spinning a yarn" with his chum. Evading a sweep with the knife he gripped the German's arm, and drawing up his legs threw them over the shoulders of his assailant. Then, literally sitting on the Hun, he held him under water until he had swallowed a quart of petrol-tainted fluid and was reduced to a state of insensibility. This done, he allowed his assailant's head to appear above the surface, and supported him until the arrival of the Portchester Castle's boats.

"Why didn't you 'out' him while you were about it, mate?" enquired the man's "raggie".

"No bloomin' fear," was the reply of the magnanimous bluejacket. Then, anxious to excuse himself, he added: "Drownin's too good for that brute. Well, I was a-tellin' you about that there bloke wot sneaked Bill's plug o' bacca. You see it wur like this——"

And as if the incident of the murderous Hun had never occurred, the sailor resumed his yarn.

Five minutes later the saturated but undaunted crews of the capsized boats were safe and sound on board. Nine members of the U-boat's complement were sent below after having been provided with dry clothing by their good-natured foes. The cutter and the whaler were recovered and hoisted inboard, having sustained very little damage. Then, having made their report and been complimented on their work, Webb and Haynes went below to change their soaked uniforms. The Portchester Castle, this part of her mission successfully accomplished, put about and retraced her course to Gibraltar.

Here the prisoners were to be sent ashore until an opportunity occurred to put them on board a vessel bound for England, there to swell the total of ever-increasing numbers of Hun pirates living in a state of comparative ease in a hostile country, while thousands of Britons, who had fought cleanly for King and Country, were languishing, half-starved and in rags, in the hideous prison-camps of Germany.

"Hallo, there's a fellow who evidently wants to pow-wow with you, Tom," said Osborne, as the two officers stood at the head of the gangway, watching the U-boat's survivors being marched ashore.

The German whom Osborne had indicated had stepped forward and was signing vigorously to Webb. Then, to the Sub's surprise, the man produced a small packet and held it out.

"Tanks!" he exclaimed. "For you—many tanks."

Then it was that Webb recognized the man whose life he had been instrumental in saving. The Hun had some sense of gratitude after all, he reflected, as he took the proffered packet.

But before Webb could examine its contents a loud yell distracted his attention from the Hun's gift. The last of the prisoners to leave the ship was the fellow who had attempted to knife one of the whaler's crew. With a show of bravado and out of sheer cruelty, he had deliberately kicked Laddie in the ribs as he passed towards the gangway.

The Hun had one of the shocks of his life. He had underestimated the spirit of an Old English sheep-dog.

Although the kick was a heavy one, Laddie never uttered a sound. Like an arrow from a bow the dog flew straight at the leg that was wearing the offending boot.

Laddie bit hard—so hard that Osborne afterwards declared that he could hear the dog's teeth grinding upon the aggressor's shin-bone. Yelling frantically with pain and terror the German strove to shake off the animal, but, retaining a vice-like hold, Laddie hung on, and finally threw the fellow on deck. As for his comrades, they ran panic-stricken down the brow and across the Mole in spite of the efforts of the guards to keep them under control. Nor did the British bluejackets attempt to interfere. There was no knowing what the angry animal might or might not do, and since the Hun brought the punishment upon himself there was no great anxiety on the part of the crew to intervene.

"That's enough, I think, Mr. Osborne," said Captain M'Bride quietly.

The Lieutenant had his doubts as to whether his pet would, in his fury, listen to his master's voice.

"Come here, Laddie," he ordered sternly.

The dog obeyed instantly, and releasing his grip trotted over to Osborne's feet. Not possessing the luxury of a tail, Laddie wagged the whole of his hind quarters as much as to say: "Now, who says a dog cannot do his bit for his country?"

Limping painfully the brutal German was assisted down the gangway. He had had his lesson.

"What did that Hun give you?" asked Osborne some minutes later.

"I'd forgotten all about it," said Webb, producing the packet from his pocket. "Laddie's little dust-up put all thought of it out of my head. It is from a fellow to whom I gave a hand when we were 'in the ditch'. He didn't seem particularly grateful then, but I suppose he was a bit done up. Hallo, what's this?"

He held up an Iron Cross.

CHAPTER IX

A Midnight Expedition

"Heigh-ho! So we are up against Johnny Turk at last," exclaimed Jack Osborne. "And a jolly clean fighter too. A foeman one can admire."

"And treat with all proper respect," added Sub-lieutenant Haynes. "I remember how in the earlier part of the war people at home used to sneer at the lying Turkish communiqués, but, by Jove, they were mighty close on the bull's-eye."

"Of course I haven't had any experience of Turkish ways," remarked Webb, "but I know something of the dirty tricks of the Huns in the North Sea and elsewhere. I used to be under the impression that the Turks were an effete, lying nation, only permitted to retain a small slice of Europe by the mutual consent of the Great Powers. See how the Bulgarians and Serbs made them run only a few years ago. And now they're putting up one of the toughest fights that ever figured in history."

A fortnight had elapsed since the Portchester Castle had left Gib. for the second time. She was now cruising on outer patrol duty in the AEgean Sea, her station being on the eastern or Asiatic shore of that island-studded expanse of water.

"I suppose the Germans stiffen the Turks a bit," said Osborne. "For one thing, the presence of Hun U-boats in these waters has hampered our movements. I wonder what sort of a job ours will be to-night?"

The "job" to which the Lieutenant referred was the destruction of a hitherto carefully concealed petrol depot on the shores of Asia Minor, somewhere in the neighbourhood of Smyrna. It was from a Greek member of a Turkish coasting vessel, captured a few hours previously, that the information had been obtained of the precise position of the depot; and, in spite of the fact that it is almost impossible to trust a Greek, Captain M'Bride determined to put the information to the test. For one thing he held the informer as a hostage, much to the latter's undisguised alarm.

The discovery and destruction of these secret lairs of German unterseebooten in the Mediterranean was proceeding systematically, yet there remained a lot of work in that direction. Once the hostile submarines were deprived of the means of replenishing their stores of fuel, the menace to the merchant shipping of the Allies in these waters would cease to exist, and once more the Suez Canal could be fully utilized as an artery of commerce. Hitherto the depredations of modern pirates had succeeded in diverting a considerable portion of Far East shipping round the Cape of Good Hope, thus increasing the cost of freightage and the length of a voyage.

A messenger pattered along the deck and, approaching the three officers, smartly saluted.

"Cap'n's compliments, sir," he said, addressing Lieutenant Osborne. "He wants to see commanding officers of boats in his cabin."

"Now to business," exclaimed Osborne gleefully as, accompanied by Webb and Haynes, he made his way aft. They found Captain M'Bride leaning over the table, his head supported by his hands, and his elbows planted upon a large-scale map.

"Good evening, gentlemen!" was his cheery greeting. "We may as well go into final details of this little business. You, Mr. Osborne, will be in charge of the boats. I am sending the steam cutter, the pulling cutter, and the whaler. Now, here is your objective—Akhissareli. According to this chart, there are four fathoms to within fifty yards of the shore so long as you give that ledge of rocks a wide berth. There is a sandy bottom, so you ought to have no difficulty in getting ashore. My experience is that one usually finds soft mud in the inlets in these parts, but this gives emphatic information to the contrary. We'll take the ship in to within ten miles of the shore. The steam cutter can then tow the other boats to save the men a long and arduous pull. Use your discretion, Mr. Osborne, when to cast off the tow, but for goodness' sake don't let the Turks have an inkling of your approach. See that the leading stoker does not let even a solitary spark escape through the funnels. By the Greek's account there'll be a guard of fifteen men, so everything depends upon a complete surprise. I'll leave you to make your own arrangements, but at six bells I'll close with the shore and keep a bright look-out for your signals, so as to pick you up without delay. The Admiral is sending a couple of destroyers to keep an eye on the Portchester Castle, so we ought to be fairly safe from submarine attack. Now, Mr. Osborne, suppose you discuss your plans with your two subordinates, and if I have any criticism to make I'll do so."

As a matter of fact the skipper listened in silence while Osborne discussed the operations with the two sub-lieutenants. He had a high opinion of the young officer's sound judgment, and, listening, had no cause to alter his opinion.

"By the by," remarked Captain M'Bride when the council of war was about to break up, "I suppose you'll see that that pet of yours is left behind? Not that I have any complaint to make against him. He's turned up trumps more than once; but I think it advisable to mention the matter."

"Of course, sir," replied Osborne. "Laddie was hanging round the cook's galley, so he won't know that we're going."

But Osborne was mistaken. The dog instinctively knew that something was about to transpire. Possibly when the leading stoker of the steam cutter, who was one of the animal's special pets, proceeded to raise steam, Laddie spotted a chance of a run ashore.

So while in the darkness—for night had fallen—the landing party mustered for inspection, the dog slipped quietly up the ladder to the cutter on the booms, and concealed himself under one of the seats in the cabin.

By the feeble glimmer of a hand lantern borne by one of the quartermasters, Lieutenant Osborne made a critical inspection of the men's arms and equipment. Then, the landing party having been reported all correct, they were briefly addressed by the Captain, who, having explained the nature of the operations, bade them good luck and a safe return.

The men having embarked, the steam cutter took the two boats in tow and steered solely on a compass course shaped in the direction of the invisible Akhissareli. An hour later, for progress was slow, the loom of the land became visible, while shortly afterwards the rugged outlines of the mountains could be discerned silhouetted against the starlit sky.

"Stop her," ordered Osborne.

Still carrying way the two pulling boats ran close alongside, while their crews silently dropped the heavy ash oars into the muffled rowlocks. For the time being the steamboat was to "stand by", ready to proceed to the assistance of her consorts, should aid be necessary. It was upon the cutter and the whaler that the brunt of the operations was to fall.

Armed with a pair of powerful night-glasses Osborne took up his post on the cabin top and swept the distant shore. Everything appeared to be quiet. Not a sound was to be heard save the distant roar of the surf on a ledge of rocks well to windward of the inlet. Not a light was visible on shore. The place seemed as deserted as the polar regions.

"Sir," whispered a petty officer; "here's this dog of yours."

"How came he on board?" asked Osborne sternly.

"Dunno, sir; he's just come out of the cabin."

Osborne realized that he was on the horns of a dilemma. Unwittingly he had disobeyed an indirect order from his skipper, since he was responsible for the dog. Should Laddie bark or make a sound the success of the enterprise would be jeopardized. Briefly, the situation was this: everything depended upon the animal's behaviour. In one scale of the balance were the lives and liberties of, perhaps, fifty men; in the other the life of a dog.

Quickly the Lieutenant decided how to act.

"Now, Laddie," he said earnestly, "lie down and don't make a sound until I give you permission. Be a good dog."

Then addressing one of the steamboat's crew he continued: "Get a marline-spike from the tool-chest, Walters; that's right. Now listen. I want you to stand by Laddie. Keep one hand in his collar. At the first sign he makes of barking, hit him as hard as you can over the head. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," replied the man. He was a trustworthy and thoroughly steady-nerved bluejacket, who would not be likely to become "jumpy". Laddie's life, then, was safe in his charge, provided Osborne's pet obeyed his master's instructions.

The Lieutenant resumed his watch. By this time both pulling boats were out of sight, swallowed up in the intense darkness. At intervals he glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. The minutes seemed to drag with a persistency hitherto unknown. Surely the two boats were by this time close to their objective?

Suddenly a flash of reddish light stabbed the darkness, then a galaxy of others—a regular blaze of rifle fires. As the report of the first shot reached the Lieutenant's ears, Osborne leant over the edge of the cabin top.

"You can put that marline-spike down, Walters," he said quietly. Then, leaping into the stern-sheets and snatching up the voice-tube, he gave the order "Full speed ahead".

Even as the steamboat gathered way, half a dozen search-lights were unmasked ashore. Two of the giant beams swung seawards, the rest being directed upon the enclosed water of the creek. At the same time the rattle of musketry was augmented by the deeper bark of quick-firers and the ominous tap-tap-tap of machine-guns.

Instinctively Osborne realized that, far from being a surprise, the landing expedition had been properly ambushed. Treachery had been at work. The Greek who, fortunately, was still detained on board the Portchester Castle had deliberately misled the British. Instead of the operations being directed against a secret petrol depot, the boats found themselves up against a powerful and well-organized system of shore batteries and a strong force of troops to oppose their landing.

Clearly Osborne knew his duty. At all costs the steamboat must dash in and rescue her consorts or perish in the attempt.

Suddenly one of the seaward-directed searchlights swung rapidly past the steam cutter and, hesitating, played fairly upon the hull of a large torpedo-boat that was making at full speed in the direction of Akhissareli.

For a brief instant Osborne hesitated. He knew that British destroyers were in the vicinity, and possibly this was one tearing to the assistance of the Portchester Castle's boats. He dare not make a private signal lest the shore batteries should spot the steamboat's presence. On the other hand, there were two factors that tended to upset the friendly destroyer theory. The Turks ashore had made no attempt to fire upon the approaching craft; her outlines, as shown up by the search-lights, were unfamiliar. As she drew nearer, Osborne knew conclusively that it was a Turkish torpedo-boat, no doubt attempting to run the gauntlet of the Allied fleets.

"Let her have it," shouted Osborne, at the same time ordering the helm to be ported ten degrees, in order to bring the steamboat on a slightly converging course with that of the Ottoman torpedo craft, which, by reason of superior speed, was rapidly overtaking the British boat.

The gun-layer of the quick-firer obeyed instantly. With a lurid flash, accompanied by an ear-splitting detonation, the first shell sped on its errand of destruction. Well and truly laid was the gun, for the projectile, striking the lightly armoured conning-tower of the torpedo-boat, literally pulverized it. Five seconds later a second shell, hitting the Turkish craft just abaft the second funnel, played havoc in the engine-room. Columns of steam, gleaming like tarnished silver in the glare of the search-light, poured through the shattered deck, as, listing heavily, the torpedo-boat circled to starboard. Feebly she replied to the steamboat's fire. Momentarily she lost way, for the lucky shot had crippled her engines; while the survivors of her crew on deck, imagining that she was about to founder, or else panic-stricken by the destruction wrought by the shell, threw themselves overboard and began to swim for the shore.

That particular piece of work accomplished—the action had lasted less than a minute—Osborne again steadied the steam cutter on her course to the rescue of the trapped landing party.

CHAPTER X

How the Landing Party Fared

It will now be necessary to set back the hands of the clock, and follow the adventures of Sub-lieutenants Webb and Haynes from the time when the cutter and the whaler parted company with the steamboat.

Tom Webb, being now the senior officer, led the way, steering a compass course, and having to make due allowances for the southerly current from the distant Dardanelles. Only the ripple of the water from the boat's bows, the laboured breathing of the oarsmen, and the creak of the stretchers broke the silence of the night. The muffled oars were admirably handled, not a plash being audible as the blades rose cleanly from the phosphorescent water. The superb pulling of those Royal Naval Reserve men would have evoked praise from the most critical naval officer.

Gradually the shore loomed up nearer and nearer. Progress was slow but sure, for Webb had taken the precaution to reserve the rowers' strength for the final lap. On the port hand the land rose abruptly. To starboard a ledge of jagged rocks stretched seaward; while dead ahead lay a comparatively broad expanse of land-locked water, its extent rendered baffling by the deep reflection cast by the high ground upon the placid surface.

Keeping midway between the entrance points Webb steered straight in. The petrol depot was supposed to be on the port-hand side, on gently shelving ground hidden from seaward by a line of low cliffs.

Webb would not have been surprised if, on rounding the entrance, there were signs of activity on shore. A couple of submarines, perhaps, anchored in the seclusion of the creek, and in the act of taking in quantities of fuel. But all was quiet. Not a sound came from the shadowy land; not a light was visible.

The cutter was in the act of turning to port, when from the high ground at the entrance to the creek a rifle-shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed within fifty feet of the boat's bows. There was no mistaking the shot. It was not a chance bullet, but a purposely-made signal.

"Give way, lads!" exclaimed the Sub, all necessity for silence now at an end. Haynes, too, gave the word for his men to pull their hardest, and now, almost neck and neck, the two boats literally tore through the water, greeted by a veritable fusillade from the heights on the left and from the shelving ground ahead.

A stifled cry of pain told Webb that one of the boat's crew had stopped a piece of nickel; but, setting his teeth grimly, the wounded man, despite a bullet wound completely through the left arm, stuck gamely to his oar.

"By Jove!" muttered the young officer as the blinding glare of the first of the unmasked search-lights played fairly upon his eyes, "we're trapped."

Then other rays darted across the surface of the creek, transforming the darkness of the night into a state of brilliance almost approaching that of daylight. A seven-pounder shell, hurtling overhead, exploded a hundred yards astern of the whaler, while, all around the two boats, the water was churned into a series of miniature waterspouts by a hail of bullets.

The British craft did not come off unscathed. Splinters from the ash oars and from the gunwales flew in all directions. Already writhing figures were huddled upon the cutter's bottom-boards, while stifled groans from the whaler told the unpleasant fact that some of her crew had been hit.

"Pull starboard, back port!" ordered Webb. With the opening fire of the Turkish light guns he knew that it would be worse than useless to attempt to carry out the operations. It would only be needlessly sacrificing the lives of the men without the faintest chance of success. All that could be done was to withdraw from the veritable death-trap, if such a course were possible.

The Turks were now using machine-guns, but luckily their aim was bad, for the scythe-like hail of bullets passed harmlessly over the boats. Had the weapons been depressed a mere fraction of an inch, the British would have been wiped out to a man.

Quickly the whaler followed the cutter's example, turning and making for the open sea.

By this time the roar of the hostile fire was deafening. Had the search-lights not been running, the flashes of the guns and of the continuous musketry were sufficient to turn the hitherto pitch darkness into a lurid glare. Showing up clearly against the high ground on the opposite side of the creek, the boats presented an easy target. By all the laws and theories of modern warfare they should have been blown clear out of the water; instead, they seemed to be shielded by a special providence.

As the boats withdrew and the range of the hostile fire increased, the Turks began to aim with better results. The coxswain of Webb's boat, shot through the head, was lying across the backboard of the stern-sheets. The bowman, hit by a flying fragment of shell, had dropped inertly over the thwart. Others of the crew had sustained more or less serious wounds, until only six men were left to use the oars.

Nor did the whaler fare better. Four dead men lay upon the bottom-boards, seven badly wounded were striving to make light of their terrible injuries. Even when face to face with death the gallant British seamen "stuck it", with grim smiles on their faces and light-hearted jests on their lips. Several of the oars had been splintered; there were half a dozen bullet holes through the planks 'twixt wind and water, to say nothing of numerous perforations in the top-strakes of the gunwales. Yet the whaler still kept afloat, thanks to the determination and resource of her crew, who stuffed strips torn from their scarves into the shot holes and plied balers vigorously, despite the galling fire to which they were unable to reply.

In vain Webb looked for the steam cutter; but while scanning the entrance to the creek he saw something that called for instant action—something that in a measure accounted for the fact that the boats had not been destroyed. The Turkish quick-firers and most of the small arms were directing a fairly concentrated storm of shot and shell across the entrance, thus creating an almost impassable barrage. Clearly the Sub saw the object of these tactics: the enemy were trying to force the two boats into surrendering, rather than blow them out of the water.

Webb found himself asking the question "For why?" He could give no satisfactory reply. He was in a very tight corner; but he had been in similar predicaments before, and his resource and courage had brought him through. Why not now?

"By Jove!" he muttered; "if we can get in close to the shore those cliffs will shelter us. They don't seem to have posted any troops there, and certainly there are no quick-firers."

Acting promptly he altered helm. The rowers, finding their boat heading towards the shore, regarded their young officer with evident concern, until they saw the cool resolute look upon the Sub's face. Then they knew that he had something in view that might extricate them from the deadly trap.

The whaler, too, followed suit, and, before the Turks realized the fact, both boats were sheltered from the hostile fire.

The Sub now steered the cutter parallel with the line of low cliffs and at a distance of about three boats' lengths from their base. At intervals the two craft had to edge outwards in order to avoid the jagged reefs that jutted out from the precipitous cliffs; yet progressing slowly, for the men at the oars were either wounded or well-nigh exhausted, the cutter, followed by the whaler, crept towards the open sea. And still no sign of the steamboat that was supposed to be standing by to cover their movements.

Suddenly Webb spotted something ahead that filled him with vague apprehension. He stood upright in order to verify his suspicions. There was no mistake: stretched right across the narrowest part of the entrance was a formidable barrier composed of wire hawsers supported on floating iron-spiked balks of timber.

The obstruction had not been there when the boats entered the land-locked estuary. It was a device planned under the supervision of German officers, and was simple in its design and operation. The balks had been bunched together close on shore. From the outermost one a flexible steel hawser crossed the entrance and was secured to a powerful capstan on the opposite bank. With no strain upon it the hawser lay on the bottom of the creek, and the navigable channel was clear. Directly the cutter and the whaler had passed over the hawser a strain was taken on it, with the result that the balks of timber were hauled into position, forming a "boom" too strong to be severed by the "way" of a rowing boat, too buoyant to be pushed under water to allow a craft to pass above, and with too great a strain on the connecting hawser to permit a boat to force her way underneath. It was like being in a bottle with the neck tightly corked.

"What do you make of it?" shouted Tom to the Sub in charge of the whaler.

"A tough job," replied Haynes. "D'you think that there's a live wire attached to that contraption?"

"I'll soon find out, old son," rejoined Webb. There was no time to be lost, for the Turks, realizing that the boats were temporarily sheltered, would almost certainly rush a couple of machine-guns to the summit of the cliff. At close range, for the boats were now within twenty yards of the shore, the British landing party would be at the mercy of the enemy.

Snatching up an india-rubber mat that lay in the stern-sheets Webb made his way for'ard, over the thwarts and the pack of wounded men. Then, clambering on the nearest balk of timber, he threw the insulated material over one of the wires and forced it against the next cable. Nothing resulted. That pair, at all events, did not convey any powerful and death-dealing current of electricity.

"A couple of hands for'ard," ordered the Sub. "Bring a hammer and chisel from the boat's bag and start cutting through this wire gear."

Volunteers were quickly forthcoming—two seamen who had been but slightly wounded. While they were tackling the task, knee-deep in water owing to the timber sinking under their weight, Webb tested the remaining wire ropes. To his intense satisfaction they were comparatively harmless; but the fact remained that there were six 2-inch flexible wires to be cut through before the boats could gain the open sea.

Desperately the two seamen attacked the stubborn wire with cold chisel and hammer. It was a slow business, for the steel was extremely tough, while the lack of anything in the nature of an anvil caused much of the force of the hammer to be wasted.

"One nearly through, sir," reported the seaman with the chisel. His hands were streaming with blood, owing to lacerations made by the severed strands, each of which was as tough and as sharp as a sailmaker's needle. "Wish we had a hacksaw," he added.

"No good wishing for something we haven't got," said Webb. "We'll do it all in good time. Let me give you a spell."

But before the Sub could make his way along the partly submerged timber Haynes exclaimed:

"Stand by; here they come!"

Webb listened intently. He could distinguish the thud of many feet, and the high-pitched sort of cheer that Turkish infantry frequently give vent to when advancing at the double.

"Back with you!" he ordered, addressing the two seamen on the balk. "Stand to your arms, men!"

The Sub had made up his mind. It must be a fight to the death. There could be no surrender. Yet it was a forlorn hope. At the utmost, only a dozen rifles would be able to reply to the renewed attack.

Another and totally different sound wafted across the sea, at first so faintly that Webb was afraid to trust the evidence of his own senses. The sound increased in volume. Now it was unmistakable—the chug-chug of the steam cutter's engines.

Snatching up a Very's pistol and inserting a cartridge, Webb fired into the air. The green light from the signal-cartridge threw a sickly glare upon the scene, hitherto shrouded in intense darkness; for, although the greater portion of the creek was one blaze of search-lights, the darkness under the cliffs was almost impenetrable.

Well it was that Webb had fired the signal, for the steamboat was heading for the centre of the creek. Instantly the boat altered helm and tore down upon the two trapped craft. She was charging at full speed against the formidable boom. "Steamboat ahoy!" shouted Webb at the full force of his lungs. "Slow down; there's an obstruction ahead of you."

The warning was unheeded. Either Osborne had failed to hear his chum's voice, or else he had made up his mind to charge the boom, in the hope that the steamboat's sharp bow would shear through the danger.

The outermost wire of the boom parted like packthread under the terrific impact of ten tons of deadweight, travelling at fifteen knots. By good luck the boat had struck the boom immediately between two of the balks of timber, otherwise her planks would have been ripped like paper by the formidable steel spikes.

The second wire sagged but held. A whole section of the boom swayed, the side nearest the cutter slipping under the water, while the other side reared five or six feet in the air, narrowly missing the bows of the whaler in its descent.

For quite twenty yards the steamboat was forced astern by the rebound of the hawser; then, just as she was forging ahead once more, Osborne ordered the engines to be stopped. Very docilely the boat ran alongside the insurmountable barrier.

"All aboard here—all hands!" ordered Osborne, addressing the survivors of the cutter and the whaler.

The bow gun of the steamboat was spitting venomously at parties of Turks who had now appeared upon the top of the cliffs. Distinctly silhouetted against the glow of the search-lights they made an excellent target, while the boats, lying close alongside the steeply rising ground, were practically invisible, save for the flashes of the steamboat's gun.

Assisted by their slightly wounded comrades, the disabled seamen were helped along the swaying timber and received on board the steam cutter. Webb and Haynes were the last to leave. The latter had come off lightly, having sustained nothing more than a graze across the forehead.

"Bear a hand, old man!" exclaimed Webb, after a vain attempt to scramble upon the boat's side.

"Hit?" enquired Haynes laconically.

"Don't know. Fancy I must be," replied the Sub dully.

Had not Haynes grasped his comrade by the shoulders Webb would have dropped inertly from the balk of timber into the sea. Everything was turning a dazzling white before his eyes. His nerveless hands were holding on to the top-strake of the cutter, yet he was unconscious of the fact.

"Buck up!" exclaimed Haynes encouragingly. "Now, up she comes!"

With a determined effort the Sub of the whaler heaved his chum upon the cutter's waterways.

"Where are you hit, old man?" he asked, but the question was unanswered. Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb was unconscious.

CHAPTER XI

Osborne's Capture

With assistance Dicky Haynes contrived to carry his brother Sub to the diminutive cabin, where three badly wounded men had already been placed in comparative shelter. More for his chum, Dicky Haynes was unable to do for the present. His duty required him to be on deck to assist the already hard-worked Osborne.

The bow gun was still firing. Not that any of the enemy were visible, but merely to let them know that sections of the cliffs in the vicinity of the steamboat were decidedly "unhealthy". The Turkish infantry had suffered fairly heavily when they appeared above the crest, and the renewed fire from the steam cutter was sufficient to keep them at a discreet distance.

"Easy astern!" ordered the Lieutenant. "One of you nip below and see if she's strained."

A seaman disappeared down the hatchway of the fore-cabin, quickly reappearing with the disconcerting news that there was water on the floorboards.

"A couple of hands to try and locate the leak," continued Osborne. Then grasping the flexible voice-tube he gave the leading stoker instructions to couple up the steam bilge-pump.

Having drawn clear of the boom, and left the pulling cutter and the whaler to their fate, the steamboat forged ahead, and put a safe distance betwixt her and the trap that had all but proved fatal to the unfortunate landing party.

The result of running ahead was to increase the rush of water through the holed plank, which, located close to the bulkhead at the fore-end of the stokehold, was awkward to get at. Moreover, a hole in a diagonal-planked craft is specially difficult to repair, even in a temporary fashion. In spite of the action of the powerful pumps the water was gaining, although the transverse bulkhead kept the engine-room from being flooded. Yet the danger of the boat foundering had to be faced.

With fire-tinged smoke pouring from her funnels the cutter continued her retreat. As long as she kept on a certain bearing, she was masked by the cliffs from the search-light and the direct fire of the Turkish quick-firers yet Osborne knew that by so doing he was running a risk of piling the little craft upon one of the numerous ledges of rock that jutted out from the shore.

"Vessel dead ahead, sir," reported the look-out man.

A couple of hundred yards away and right athwart the steamboat's course was a long, low-lying craft, apparently hove-to. She showed no lights, nor had she attempted to hail the approaching British boat. To pass her to starboard meant almost certain disaster upon the rocks; to alter helm to pass her to port would result in the steamboat entering the field of the search-lights, and consequently make her an easy target for the hostile guns.

"Stand by, there!" exclaimed Osborne. "Let her have it directly I give the word. Steady on your helm, coxswain. Keep her at that."

For a few seconds Lieutenant Osborne kept his glasses focused on the mysterious craft. Was she a Turkish patrol-boat intent upon cutting off the steam cutter's retreat, or one of the British motor craft sent to assist the landing party?

Suddenly the Lieutenant gave a chuckle of delight.

"It's our old friend the Turkish torpedo-boat," he remarked to Haynes. "We gave her what-ho! on our way to pick you up. Her crew jumped overboard and swam for it."

One thing still puzzled him. The torpedo-boat, when abandoned by her panic-stricken crew, was a couple of miles farther to the south-west. Now, although apparently without way, she had almost grounded on the north-eastern shore of the extensive bay.

"Can't be the current," mused Osborne. "That sets southerly from the Dardanelles. Perhaps it's a counter-current, though."

The latter theory was correct. A strong run of water, deflected from the opposite side of the bay, had set the derelict in a totally different direction from the one Osborne had imagined.

"We'll have her, old man," he exclaimed to Haynes. "It will be something to make up for the rotten business. Stand by, bowmen. Out fenders!"

With hardly the faintest bump, for there was no sea on, the steam cutter was brought alongside the abandoned Turkish craft. Although badly damaged about the upper works and hulled several times above the water-line, the latter was still "as tight as a bottle". A couple of hands were placed on board to take the helm, and the cutter, lashed alongside fore and aft, began to gather way. Gradually speed worked up to five knots, as the little captor and her comparatively large prize drew away from the dangerous shore.

Osborne realized that he was not yet "out of the wood". Ahead was a stretch of brilliantly illuminated water, where the search-lights, playing above and over the cliffs, were able to throw direct rays upon the sea. Yet, as the steamboat and her prize entered the light, the Turks refrained from reopening fire. They had spotted the captured torpedo-boat; the steam cutter lashed alongside was hidden from their view by the greater bulk of her capture. They recognized the former as a unit of the Ottoman Navy. She was known to be attempting a run from the Dardanelles to Smyrna; and yet there could only be one reason why she should be proceeding in a westerly direction.

When at length the Turks realized that the torpedo-boat was a prize, they brought every available gun to bear upon her. For several minutes the water all around was churned into columns of foam. Several fragments of shell struck the prize. The steamboat, snugly sheltered under her lee, escaped without further damage. Foiled in their endeavour, the enemy reluctantly ceased fire.

As soon as they were out of range the boat's crew were able to devote themselves to their wounded comrades. For the first time that night a lamp was lighted in the after-cabin.

Tom Webb had recovered consciousness when, having left Haynes in charge, Lieutenant Osborne went below to see how his brother officer and close companion fared.

The Sub's injuries consisted of a painful, though not dangerous, flesh wound in the muscles of the right leg—a nasty laceration caused by one of the sharp spikes of the boom. Webb, in his desperate work, had not noticed the wound until he had attempted to climb over the side of the steamboat. In addition he had a contused wound on the top of his head, although he had no idea of how or when the injury was received.

"I always was noted for my thick skull, Osborne," he remarked, with a rather sorry endeavour to follow out the Scout's maxim of "Keep smiling". "But I'm sorry for what has happened."

"It wasn't your fault, or anyone's, as far as I can make out," said the Lieutenant. "We were had properly. These things are bound to occur in war-time. It's lucky it's no worse."

"Rather humiliating, though," continued Webb. "Getting in a proper rat-trap without the chance of firing a shot."

"We fired many a round, only you know nothing about it," announced Osborne. "We were quite hotly engaged——"

"What's that noise I hear?" interrupted the injured officer, as a grinding, rasping sound penetrated into the cabin.

"Oh, that? Nothing much," replied Osborne modestly. "We've a prize lashed alongside—a Turkish torpedo-boat. She got in our way after the boats had cast off, and we winged her. Later on we fell in with her again, and finding her abandoned but seaworthy, we took possession of her. So you see, Tom, it hasn't been altogether a fruitless expedition. We've lost the pulling cutter and the whaler, and collared a torpedo-boat in exchange."

"Good business!" exclaimed Webb. "I'd like to cheer, Osborne, only my throat's burning; and I can't grin my appreciation; the bump on my head has stretched my cheeks so tightly that if I did I really believe I'd crack the skin. You know——"

"Destroyer bearing down on the starboard bow, sir," reported Haynes in his best professional manner.

Osborne hurried from the cabin. Feeble though the lamplight was, it was sufficient to dazzle his eyes and render him incapable of seeing anything distinctly.

"Bring a signalling lamp with you," he ordered, at the same time making a leap for the torpedo-boat's deck.

Out of the darkness flashed the destroyer's search-light full upon the prize. It was a nerve-racking ordeal, for the oncoming craft, recognizing the torpedo-boat as a Turkish vessel, would perhaps start blazing away without further ado.

Promptly the steamboat's signalman made her private number. The destroyer acknowledged, and the danger was at an end. Circling and easing down, the British war-ship approached within hailing distance.

"Portchester Castle's steamboat and prize, eh?" shouted her Lieutenant-commander. "You're lucky to have collared their torpedo-boat. We've been on the look-out for her the last week. Can we render any assistance?"

Osborne considered. It was still a long way back to the Portchester Castle. Already the wind was rising, and the sea, hitherto calm, promised to become at least choppy before very long.

"Will you relieve us of our prize?" he asked.

"Certainly," was the reply. "We'll tow her into Lemnos."

Admirably manoeuvred, the destroyer came close enough to enable a line to be thrown to the prize's fore-deck. To the line was attached a stout wire hawser, the end of which was made fast to the torpedo-boat's for'ard bollard. Half a dozen sailors from the destroyer boarded and took possession of the capture, while Osborne and his men returned to the steamboat. The lashings securing the latter alongside the prize were then cast off, and in less than ten minutes the destroyer and her tow were swallowed up in the darkness.

"That's a load off my mind," soliloquized Osborne, as speed was increased to fifteen knots. By this time the leak had been temporarily plugged, the water that had made its way into the fore-cabin had been ejected, and there was every chance of the steamboat making a quick run back to her parent ship.

"Where be the dawg, sir?" enquired one of the steamboat's crew. "I can't see 'im nowheres aboard."

"Laddie!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Where are you? Come here, old boy."

There was no response. In ordinary circumstances Laddie would be within a paw's length of his master. Even though the animal might be sulking after the Lieutenant's admonition (and the dog was not given to sulking), the mere utterance of his name would bring him bounding to his master in an ecstasy of delight.

"Anyone seen Laddie recently?" sang out the Lieutenant, addressing the men up for'ard.

"I saw him a-followin' you when you got aboard that tawpeda-boat, sir," declared a young able-seaman. "He were close on your heels when you jumped, sir."

"Have a look down below," continued Osborne anxiously.

A search of the fore-cabin produced no desired result. In the diminutive engine-room, the leading stoker examined every nook and cranny of the compartment housing that box of tricks of intricate machinery. Reluctantly Osborne came to the conclusion that his pet was missing. The able-seaman, questioned further, was firm in his belief that he had seen Laddie following his master, but he could not say whether the animal actually boarded the prize. Nor could any of the other men express a definite opinion on that point.

It was just possible that the dog might have missed his footing, and have fallen between the steamboat and her capture. Failing being crushed between the two craft he might have fallen into the sea, and, unnoticed in the bustle, had been lost in the darkness.

Two hours later the steamboat—the sole survivor of the three boats that had left the ship—ran alongside the Portchester Castle.

"By Jove, Osborne!" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, who in his anxiety had remained all night on deck. "What has happened?"

"They were properly on the alert, sir," replied the Lieutenant. "We were trapped, and were unable to accomplish our mission. However, we fell in with a Turkish torpedo-boat, engaged her, and compelled the crew to abandon ship. On the return run we again fell in with the torpedo-boat, took possession, and towed her until relieved by one of our destroyers."

"That evens things up a bit," remarked the skipper. "And the cutter and the whaler?"

"Had to be abandoned, sir. They found themselves on the wrong side of a boom."

"And our casualties?"

"Mr. Webb wounded, Mr. Haynes wounded slightly. Five men killed and nine wounded, and——"

"And——?" repeated Captain M'Bride.

"Laddie missing, sir," continued Osborne.

CHAPTER XII

The Turkish Biplane

A week passed. Although the Portchester Castle was far from being inactive, the result of almost continuous patrol work amongst the islands of the AEgean Sea produced nothing in the nature of the capture or destruction of a hostile craft. There had been numerous false alarms; suspicious vessels had been chased, overhauled and boarded, only to find that their papers were in thorough order and their cargoes of a non-contraband nature; wild-goose expeditions had been carried out in search of imaginary petrol depots—all of which were most disappointing. The only redeeming feature of the business was that the presence of a strong fleet of patrolling craft tended to curtail the enemy's activities. The mere knowledge that the approaches to the Dardanelles were closely watched, acted as a deterrent both to the Turkish torpedo craft and the German submarines that had been sent hither, in a vain attempt to drive the Allied fleets from the open water of the Mediterranean and to stifle the merchant shipping of that inland sea.

Before the expiration of those seven days Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb was reported fit for duty. Thanks to clean living and a robust constitution, he made rapid progress under the skilful care of the ship's doctor. His regret for Osborne's loss was almost equal to that of Laddie's master.

The latter was badly hit by the catastrophe. Although he gave little outward sign of his grief, he felt the loss of his pet acutely.

"He may turn up again, old man," said Webb consolingly. "Just as likely as not he was left on board the torpedo-boat. If so, the destroyer's people will look after him until we get in touch with her."

"I wish I could share your opinion, Tom," replied Osborne. "But I can't see how that could possibly happen. Laddie wouldn't remain on board when I left. No, I'm afraid he's gone for good; and it's the horrible uncertainty of his fate that makes matters worse."

Captain M'Bride, too, was profuse in his sympathy.

"Of course, Osborne," he remarked, "I can't very well send out a general wireless asking if one of our destroyers has picked up a dog. I'd possibly get rapped over the knuckles by the Admiral for my pains. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write a private letter to a chum of mine at Lemnos—he's the skipper of the Tarbox—and ask him to institute enquiries. I'm rather inclined to favour Mr. Webb's theory, you know."

"Thanks, sir," replied Osborne. "It would be——"

"Aeroplane on our port quarter, sir," shouted one of the look-out men.

The three officers hastened to the bridge, where the officer of the watch had already brought his telescope to bear upon the approaching air-craft.

"A Johnny Turk, sir," reported the watchkeeper. "There are crescents on her planes."

A bugle blared "Action Stations". The two anti-aircraft guns were manned, while the quick-firers were trained to their extreme elevation in the hope that the oncoming aerial foe would still be a sufficient distance from the ship to enable the weapons to be brought to bear upon the swiftly-moving target.

Already it was too late for the ordinary quick-firers to be of service. The "anti's" alone had to be employed to fire at the Turkish aeroplane. Should the latter elect to rise to a great altitude the comparatively feeble weapons would be of little use. On the other hand, the higher the aeroplane rose the greater difficulty there would be of hitting a moving target like the Portchester Castle.

The two guns spoke almost simultaneously. By the aid of the "tracers", thin wisps of smoke from the soaring projectiles, it was quite easy to follow the flight of the shrapnel shells. Both burst seemingly close to the enemy air-craft. The observers in the armed merchant-cruiser could see the delicate smoke-wreaths from the detonating projectile being riven by the rush of air from the swiftly-moving machine. For a few seconds the aeroplane appeared to falter; then steadying herself, continued her flight undamaged.

Ten seconds later a bomb crashed into the sea, exploding with a terrific detonation within fifty yards of the Portchester Castle's starboard quarter. It was near enough to send a shower of spray completely over the ship's poop, while fragments of metal rattled against her steel sides.

Again a shrapnel shell burst overhead, but so far from the target that Osborne involuntarily exclaimed, "Rotten shot"; but, the instant after, "anti No. 2" succeeded in making the aeroplane side-slip for nearly a hundred feet before it recovered and circled in order to regain a favourable position for dropping more explosives.

Instinctively Tom Webb edged nearer the chart-house, but only for a moment. Captain M'Bride and Lieutenant Osborne were standing rigid and apparently unconscious of the danger. Their example, coupled with the fact that if the bomb did hit the bridge there would not be sufficient fragments of the chart-house to fill a pint measure, steadied the Sub's nerves. Many a time he had been in danger of being blown sky-high by mine or torpedo. He had grown used to such perils; but the unprecedented possibility of being pulverized by an enemy that could be seen had been responsible for his unpremeditated effort to gain a useless shelter.

Meanwhile the Portchester Castle, having been given the fullest use of the helm, was swinging to port. As she did so, the second bomb fell where her bows would have been had she held on her course.

"That was a near one, Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride calmly, as he wiped the spray from his eyes, for the cascade of foam had fallen inboard, some of it flying over the elevated bridge. "This chap is a sticker for business. See, he's making another circle."

At that moment a man rushed up from below, and, leaping over the stanchion-rails, disappeared beneath the waves. Osborne and Webb hastened to the end of the bridge, but the suicide never appeared again.

It was the Greek, who had been detained on board pending his trial for treachery in connection with the thwarted attempt upon the non-existent petrol depot of Akhissareli. According to custom, all prisoners are released from cells when the vessel goes into action; and, profiting by this circumstance, the Greek, terrified by the crash of the guns and the explosion of the bombs, had escaped execution by order of a court-martial by choosing a voluntary death.

"He's cheated the hangman," remarked Osborne. "But what's the next move?"

The officers' attention was again directed towards the hostile air-craft. The biplane had swung round, in order to make yet another attempt to bomb the war-ship.

The Turkish airman was not lacking in daring. Reckless of the Portchester Castle's anti-aircraft guns, he volplaned from a height of three thousand feet until he had descended to less than two hundred and fifty feet from his target.

In so doing he unconsciously swung to leeward, and got within the maximum elevation of the 4.7-inchers. One of the gun-layers saw his chance and took it. With a shrill screech the projectile sped from the inclined muzzle of the powerful weapon. It was a splendid shot, but hardly good enough, for, without exploding, the shell passed completely through the right-hand planes.

Again the biplane lurched heavily, and side-slipped to within a hundred feet of the sea. Then, with superb skill, the airman righted the damaged machine. He had had enough. It was now his endeavour to save himself by flight if possible.

"Cease fire!" ordered Captain M'Bride in stentorian tones. "She's done for."

Lower and lower sank the crippled aeroplane, despite the efforts of the pilot to keep her clear of the surface of the water. With a strange spiral-like motion the biplane carried on for nearly a mile, then with a tremendous splash struck the water, reared her tail twenty feet in the air, and promptly disappeared from sight.

"There he is, sir; there's the pilot!" shouted a score of voices, as the head and shoulders of the airman were to be discerned bobbing up and down on the waves.

"And he's still alive," added Webb, still keeping his telescope bearing upon the scene of the biplane's dive.

"Away sea-boat!" ordered the skipper, at the same time telegraphing for "Half-speed astern".

There was a rush to man the boat. The jack-tars, who a few moments previously were in danger of being blown to atoms, were now eager to show their appreciation of a brave foe by doing their level best to save his life. Although Johnny Turk had, on several occasions, made things pretty hot for the Allies, the British seamen and soldiers, unanimously regarding him as a clean fighter and far superior in chivalry to the Hun, were quick to recognize his good qualities.

Before way was off the ship the sea-boat, commanded by Dicky Haynes, had been disengaged from the falls, and was pulling strongly in the direction of the airman, who, although unable to swim, was being supported by an inflated air life-belt.

Speedily the Turk was lifted into the boat. For a few moments he felt a trifle uncertain of the manner of his reception, but he was quickly put at his ease by the young Sub, who, finding that the airman spoke French, was able to maintain a simple conversation.

"You are a prisoner of war, sir," said Captain M'Bride, through Haynes's interpretation, when the airman was brought on board the Portchester Castle. "We are quite agreeable to letting you have plenty of liberty, providing you give us your parole. You will be well treated, and, subject to certain restrictions, allowed freedom of movement. If, on the other hand, you are discovered engaging upon any action likely to prejudice the safety of the ship, then the penalty will be death."

The airman, who announced himself as Afir-al-Bahr, Flight-lieutenant of the Ottoman Navy, showed unmistakable signs of sincere gratitude for his rescue and generous treatment. He swore by Mohammed and his father's beard—the most binding oath that a Mussulman can take—to abide faithfully by the terms under which his parole was granted.

Later on in the day he became quite communicative. He admitted that his heart was not in his work. He was one of the educated class of Turks who realized, perhaps too late, that Germany had selfish ulterior motives in her profuse expressions of friendship for her near Eastern ally. He was sensible of the friendliness of Great Britain towards the Ottoman Empire in times past, and regretted the turn of events that had compelled the Porte to throw in its lot with the Hun.

"But since we are enemies," he added, "we must fight bravely until Allah wills that Ottoman and Englishman shall again sheathe the sword."

"Quite a decent sort," declared Webb to his chum Osborne later in the afternoon. "Did you notice how tactfully he evaded a chance question on the part of the skipper? He couldn't have given a direct answer without betraying some of the Turkish war plans. By Jove! what a contrast to those Hun officers we had on board the old Zealous. Comparisons may be odious, but a German is a jolly sight more odious."

"Seen this, you fellows?" asked the junior watch-keeper, holding out a slip of paper. "Something doing this trip, I fancy."

It was a decoded wireless message, brief and to the point.

"Mail-boat Sunderbund reported torpedoed, latitude 34° 15' 20" N., long. 22° 4' 16" E. Passengers and crew taken to boats, supposed making for Alexandria. Portchester Castle to proceed and investigate to eastward of position; Restormel to westward. Immediate."

CHAPTER XIII

The "Sunderbund's" Life-boat

The latitude and longitude given showed that the attack upon the mail-boat had occurred close to the Tripolitan coast off the province of Barca, a desolate country on the western frontier of Egypt. At the time of receiving the message the Portchester Castle was twenty miles S.E. of Cape Sidero, in the island of Crete, and roughly 250 miles from the scene of the disaster.

Immediately upon receipt of the wireless the armed merchant-cruiser set off at full speed to carry out instructions. A message from the Restormel announced the fact that that vessel was eighty miles to the westward.

"Glass tumbling down as if someone had knocked a hole in the bulb," remarked Osborne. "We're in for a spell of very dirty weather before very long. The Sunderbund's boats won't stand much chance in the heavy seas one meets with in the Eastern Mediterranean, and heaven help them if they are cast ashore. They've an even chance of death by starvation—that is, if they survive the landing through the breakers—or captivity in the hands of the Senussi."

"I thought that those fellows had been knocked out long ago," remarked Haynes.

"Yes, as far as the Sollum district is concerned," replied the Lieutenant. "But, unfortunately, numbers of these undesirables have made their way westward into the fringe of the Tripolitan desert. They have, apparently, lost their Turkish officers, and are acting as banditti. From all accounts they are well armed with modern rifles, although their field-guns and machine-guns were captured several months ago."

The barometer had given a certain warning of bad weather, and before many hours had elapsed it was blowing hard from the east'ard. The sun set in a ragged bank of indigo-coloured clouds. The wind whistled shrilly through the armed merchant-cruiser's rigging, and the spindrift began to fly in heavy masses over the weather bow.

Morning brought no improvement in the weather. In fact it looked worse, for the waves were so heavy that the Portchester Castle had lost a quantity of deck gear, while two of the boats had been "stove in" at the davits, owing to the gripes being carried away under the hammer-like blows of the green seas.

"Not much chance for the Sunderbund's boats," said Haynes. "They couldn't possibly make headway against this tumble. They'd be swamped to a dead cert."

"Unless they rigged up sea-anchors and rode to them," added Webb. "These waves are not so steep as those we get in the North Sea, and luckily the wind is not blowing dead on shore. It's my belief that the Restormel, being farther to lee'ard, will stand a better chance than we shall of picking up the boats."

By this time the Portchester Castle had altered helm and was steering eastward, right into the eye of the wind. Broad on the starboard beam could be faintly discerned the low, sandy cliffs of the African shore, fringed by a wide belt of milk-white foam. North, west, and east the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in an ill-defined blurr. Not another sail was in sight, nor had the Portchester Castle passed any wreckage, although her course had taken her over the spot where the ill-fated liner had been reported to have sunk.

Wireless messages constantly passed between the Portchester Castle and the Restormel, each vessel keeping her consort posted as to her position; but neither was able to announce the gratifying news that the object of their quest had been achieved. About eight bells (8 a.m.) the officer of the watch reported what appeared to be a boat, well on the starboard bow. A course was immediately shaped to approach the supposed craft, while the Portchester Castle's officers kept it well under observation with their glasses.

"I don't think it is a boat," suggested Haynes. "Looks to me like surf breaking over a rock."

He wiped the moisture from the lens of his telescope and looked again.

"It's only broken water," he said with conviction.

"I believe it is a boat—a white-painted one," said Webb.

"Sure?" enquired Haynes, unwilling to own that his surmise was at fault.

"Yes; she's lifting to the waves. I can see people in her."

"By Jove, yes," agreed Osborne. "And they are unpleasantly close to the broken water. They don't seem to be making headway."

"We're in as close as we dare go, I fancy, Mr. Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride. "We cannot hazard the ship by going inside the ten-fathom line. Fire a couple of rockets, and see if they will be able to pull out to us."

Quickly the order was carried out. The two detonating rockets exploded with loud reports, and, in spite of the fury of the wind, the people in the boat heard the signal. Hitherto their attention seemed to have been directed towards the inhospitable shore, and they had not noticed the Portchester Castle's approach. The latter slowed down, steaming at half-speed into the wind at a distance of a couple of miles from one of the Sunderbund's life-boats, for such she was.

"They'll never do it," declared Captain M'Bride. "They're only pulling four oars and look quite done up. We'll have to call for volunteers, Mr. Osborne, to take the steamboat in and give them a tow back to the ship."

"Very good, sir," replied the Lieutenant. "I'll go."

"No, not you, Mr. Osborne," said the skipper. "You'll be more useful on board. It will be a ticklish job lowering the steamboat."

"May I, sir?" asked Webb eagerly.

Captain M'Bride assented. He had great confidence in the Sub-lieutenant's capability, coolness, and sound judgment, and already Webb had acquired a considerable amount of practice in handling the steam cutter.

There was no lack of volunteers to man the boat, and the Sub had no difficulty in picking out those men who were accustomed to the cutter. Steam was quickly raised, and in a very short time the heavy craft was ready to be hoisted out.

The Portchester Castle's helm was then starboarded, bringing the vessel broadside on to wind and sea, and thus affording a floating breakwater for the rescuing boat. Even then the vessel rolled so heavily, and the waves even to leeward were so vicious, that the operation of casting off from the ship's side would be fraught with danger.

"We'll try the effect of a little oil," declared the skipper. "Pass the word for a cask of heavy stuff to be started. Look lively there."

The effect of the oil was little short of marvellous. Far to leeward the tumultuous seas subsided as if by magic, leaving a calm, fan-shaped belt of iridescent water bounded by a terrific turmoil of broken water.

Clad in oilskins, sou'wester, and rubber boots, Webb took his place by the side of the coxswain. For'ard everything had been battened down, while in the stern-sheets were a couple of coils of rope and a strongly-stropped empty water breaker.

"Easy ahead," ordered the Sub. Although every moment was precious, he was too good a seaman to attempt to drive his boat at full speed through the turmoil of foaming seas immediately beyond the belt of oil-quelled water. To have done so would have resulted in a severe strain upon the engines owing to the racing of the propeller as the boat's stern lifted clear of the waves, and quite possibly the cutter would have found herself in a far more dangerous predicament than the life-boat to whose assistance she was proceeding.

Soon the steamboat was in the thick of it. Solid waves swept her as far aft as the cabin top; clouds of vapour, caused by the cold water coming in sudden contact with the hot funnel-casing, enveloped the Sub and the coxswain in a blinding, scurrying pall of moisture. Only by holding on like grim death were the two able to save themselves from being thrown overboard by the erratic, almost vertical jerk of the boat's stern. At rapid intervals the helm had to be smartly ported in order to enable the steamboat to meet the hissing crested waves, which, had they hit the craft on her broadside, might easily have capsized her, or at least flooded her cockpit flush with the coamings.

Nobly the cutter struggled onwards. Every foot gained was the result of sheer hard work—a contest of the product of a mechanical age with the forces of nature. Gradually the distance between her and the Portchester Castle increased; she was making slow but sure headway against wind and waves.

"See anything of the boat?" asked Webb, bellowing into the coxswain's ear in order to make himself understood in the racket of pounding machinery and the roar of the elements.

"Not a sign, sir," replied the man. "Maybe she's in the trough of the sea when we're on top of a wave, and t'other way about. Anyways, we'll pick her up if she's still afloat."

For full half an hour the strenuous struggle continued, then the steamboat entered a comparatively calm belt of water. The respite was but temporary, for two hundred yards ahead began the broken water as the waves began to thunder on the flat shore.

"There she is, sir," shouted the coxswain, as the glistening white bows of the Sunderbund's life-boat were for a brief instant visible on the summit of a wave. "And lumme," he added under his breath, "they're about done in, I fancy. At all events it'll take some getting out of that jumble of surf."

The man was quite right in his surmise. The liner's boat was gradually and steadily losing ground. Despite the desperate and heroic efforts of her rowers—they had double- and treble-banked the oars that still remained serviceable—the physical strain was beginning to tell.

"Where she can keep afloat we can go," decided the Sub. "So here goes."

The steamboat approached cautiously, easing down as each successive comber swept towards her. Already there was a foot of water in the engine-room, while, in spite of the most skilful handling, the propeller was racing madly as the boat dipped her nose and threw her stern clear of the waves.

It was, indeed, almost miraculous that the Sunderbund's life-boat had so far weathered the storm. As it was, green seas were breaking over her, necessitating prompt, vigorous, and constant baling on the part of her passengers and crew. Many of the former, too, were down with sea-sickness of the worst form, and only lay inertly on the bottom-boards, too ill to take further interest in the proceedings.

At length the steamboat approached sufficiently near to enable the breaker and grass rope to be veered to the sorely pressed life-boat. Directly the towing-hawser was made fast the former forged ahead; but hardly had she taken the strain when the means of communication parted like packthread, one portion narrowly missing being caught by the propeller. Had it done so the steamboat would have been helpless in the trough of the sea.

It was now an even more difficult matter to take the boat in tow again, for the breaker and grass rope had been taken on the Sunderbund's boat. Meanwhile both craft had drifted farther to leeward, and closer to the worst of the broken water. Clearly Webb had to act now or the opportunity would be gone for ever.

Frequently buried in green seas, from which she shook herself clear like an enormous dog, the steam cutter staggered to windward of the boat and, turning, approached within casting distance.

Dexterously communication was re-established, and once more the steamboat began to take the strain of the towing-hawser. At one instant stretched as taut as a steel bar, at another dipping limply in the sea, the stout rope stood the strain, and gradually the life-boat began to gather way. If progress was slow on the outward run, the journey back to the ship was even more so. Yet the Portchester Castle was unable to approach another cable's length without an almost certain risk of grounding.

"The old ship's chucking overboard some more oil, sir," reported the coxswain. "Maybe we'll get some benefit, although I'll allow it'll drift too far to wind'ard."

"It's spreading," shouted Webb in reply. "That will do the trick."

Twenty minutes later the steamboat ran alongside her parent. The hawser was transferred to the latter's steam-capstan, and the cutter was deftly hoisted inboard.

Now came the more difficult task of transhipping the rescued men from the life-boat to the Portchester Castle. Without means of hoisting the heavy boat bodily out of the water, the armed merchant-cruiser's crew had to haul each survivor separately by means of bowlines and bos'n's chairs, for most of the passengers had collapsed from exposure.

There were two exceptions, however: one a tall, fair-haired man in the khaki uniform of a Major of artillery. In spite of the fact that his left arm was in a sling, he experienced no difficulty in making the ascent, and came over the side with a decided smile on his face.

Sub-lieutenant Webb looked at him intently; then, to confirm his surmise, he glanced at the officer's companion—a slightly shorter and broad-shouldered man of about forty. His face was bronzed, his hair, crisp in spite of the drenching spray, was tinged with grey at the temples. His attire consisted of a pair of navy-blue trousers and a shirt. It afterwards transpired that he had given his monkey-jacket to one of the lady passengers, or Webb would have recognized him as a Lieutenant-commander of the Royal Naval Reserve.

"By Jove, Billy!" drawled the naval man. "Thought you and I, old bird, would have had to swim for it—eh what? How's that groggy wrist of yours now?"

Tom Webb hesitated no longer. He stepped up to the pair of rescued officers and held out his hand.

"Thanks, many thanks," exclaimed the coatless one. "You're the Sub in charge of the steamboat? Smart bit of work, 'pon my word."

"Glad to have the opportunity of repaying a good turn, Mr. Dacres," said Webb.

"Good turn?" repeated Dacres, knitting his brows. "Good turn. I don't follow you. I haven't met you before, have I?"

"Yes, and so has Mr. Fane."

Mr. Fane was equally at a loss.

"Give it up," he declared. "All the same——"

"Dash it all, I've tumbled to it," interrupted Dacres. "You were that curly-headed Sea Scout I met at Haslar Creek three or four years ago. I believe you were the means of enabling me to get a yacht off my hands."

"And incidentally the means of getting me my commission," added the ex-Tenderfoot. "And Osborne is on board too. There he is: officer of the watch. If it hadn't been for the experience we gained on board the old Petrel, I don't suppose we would have been here."

"Then the little yacht did some practical good work after all. I told you so, Billy," said Dacres, addressing his companion. "Yes, thanks very much," he added, in response to the Sub's invitation. "The loan of a dry kit and a good meal would be very acceptable. It's nearly——"

"Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!" roared the mast-head man, his words unmistakably clear in spite of the howling of the wind.

The Portchester Castle began to turn in obedience to a quick movement of the helm. Hoarse orders were shouted from the bridge and taken up by the bos'n's mates in other parts of the ship. But the warning came too late. The armed merchant-cruiser reeled as with a terrific explosion a torpedo "got home" just abaft her engine-room.

CHAPTER XIV

Submarined

Of what happened during the next few minutes Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb had but a hazy confused idea. The reverberations of the tremendous detonation were straining his ear-drums almost to bursting-point. Wreaths of pungent smoke, caught by the vicious blasts that eddied over the deck, obliterated everything from his vision and made him gasp for breath like a drowning man. His brain seemed benumbed by the concussion, his legs were on the point of giving way until he almost unconsciously grasped a guard-rail within arm's length.

Gradually he began to realize that disaster had overtaken the ship. He was aware of men rushing hither and thither, some shouting, others almost as dazed as himself. The Portchester Castle was listing heavily to starboard. Mingled with the tumult on deck, the howling of the wind, the hiss of escaping steam, and the slap of the vicious seas, came the unmistakable sound of volumes of water rushing in through the enormous rent in the ship's bottom, caused by the explosion of the torpedo.

"By Jove, Billy!" exclaimed Dacres in his customary drawl; "we've pulled off a double event. Torpedoed twice within twenty-four hours, eh, what?"

Before Fane could reply a bugle-call rang out sharply. It was the "Still". Instantly the turmoil of humanity ceased. As steady as if at a ceremonial inspection the men stood at attention until "Collision Quarters" brought the ship's company into a state of disciplined activity.

The Portchester Castle was doomed. All on board realized the fact. In spite of the terrific seas a German submarine had "stood by" the Sunderbund's life-boat, keeping submerged at a distance sufficient to prevent any of the liner's survivors "spotting" the pole-like periscopes as they appeared at intervals above the waves.

The Hun skipper of the U-boat had caught the wireless appeal from the stricken Sunderbund. He knew that aid would be speedily forthcoming, and setting aside all dictates of humanity, he had lain perdu for the opportunity of yet a further display of "frightfulness".

He was not mistaken in his conjecture. He had witnessed from afar the rescue of the Sunderbund's life-boat, and awaiting his chance had approached within torpedo range while the attention of the Portchester Castle's crew was directed towards the hoisting in of the steamboat and the reception of the survivors of his previous victim. And now the armed merchant-cruiser, with a rent twenty feet in length, was settling down. Her strained water-tight bulkheads were unable to withstand the enormous pressure. It was merely a matter of minutes before the Portchester Castle would make her final plunge.

Captain M'Bride, though cool and collected, realized the gravity of the situation. Apart from the danger of lowering boats in that angry sea, the great list of the ship rendered practically impossible the use of the boats on the port side.

There was one chance: that of making for the inhospitable African shore in the hope that the ship would ground. In that case her crew could remain on board until rescue was forthcoming; or, in the event of the vessel breaking up, there would be a chance of taking to the boats and effecting a landing under the lee of the stranded hull.

By this time Webb had recovered his normal state of mind, and was directing the provisioning and arming of some of the boats. Osborne was on the fo'c'sle, superintending the clearing away of the anchors, so that on approaching the shore the stricken vessel could be thrown broadside on to the waves. Haynes and other officers were engaged in assisting the men to make rafts and getting provisions and water from the store-rooms.

Every member of the ship's company had donned a life-belt; the survivors of the Sunderbund, who had only just discarded their life-saving gear, had to put their belts on once more. Theirs was a hard case, since they were almost exhausted with the privations they had previously undergone; yet they made a brave show of spirit that is typical of the Briton in a tight corner.

Presently the starboard engine gave out. The stokehold was flooded and the fires damped. Within a few minutes the port engines followed suit, and although still carrying way the Portchester Castle gradually slowed down. Her head fell off, and she wallowed in the trough of the breakers.

By this time her rail on the starboard side was only a few feet above water. She was deep down by the stern, her bows being correspondingly high. The very lifelessness of the ship, in spite of the enormous waves, showed that the end was not far off.

"Lower away!" shouted the skipper through a megaphone.

Smartly, but without undue haste or confusion, the boats in the davits on the starboard side were lowered. The first to disengage from the falls was the second cutter. Barely had she cast off when a terrific sea caught and completely capsized her. Half a dozen of her crew succeeded in catching hold of life-lines thrown by their comrades on board the ship, and were hauled on board again. Some were trapped underneath the upturned boat, others, supported by the life-belts, were swept shorewards through the chaos of surf and foam.

The remaining boats on the starboard side got away without accident; then, owing possibly to the amount of water that had poured into the ship's engine-rooms and holds, the Portchester Castle swung back on an even keel.

Captain M'Bride saw his chance—and took it.

"Let go both anchors!" he shouted.

With a rattle and a roar the steel cables rushed through the hawse-pipes, and presently, the vessel's drive to leeward being checked, she swung round, with her bows pointing diagonally for the shore.

Now was the opportunity to man and lower the boats on the port side. Osborne, his work on deck accomplished, took charge of one, Webb of another; and with only the loss of a couple of oars which were smashed against the ship's side the frail craft took the water.

"Look out, she's going!" exclaimed a score of voices.

Which was a fact. The end had come suddenly. With a decided movement the ship's bows slid under water; her stern reared perhaps twenty feet clear of the waves. Webb could see those of the crew who had not time to take to the boats struggling waist-deep in the surging water ere they were swept clear of the foundering vessel. On the bridge stood the gallant skipper, true to the long-established and glorious custom of the sea. Until the last man had left the ship his place was on the bridge.

He made no effort to save himself. Gripping the guard-rail he stood erect, his attention directed towards those of his ship's company who had hesitated to trust themselves to swim ashore.

"Pull to leeward, men," ordered Webb. "We may even yet pick up our skipper."

Even as he spoke the Portchester Castle ceased to sink. She had grounded in about eight or nine fathoms of water, leaving her bridge and a portion of the spar-deck still showing above the waves.

Those still on board were quick to recognize the change of fortune. Some made their way to the bridge, others clambered into the lee-rigging, until the shrouds were black with humanity.

All the boats were turning back. Those from the starboard side were sufficiently loaded to endanger their safety should more men crowd into them; but those lowered from the port side had not been able to take their full complement before the vessel sank. On the latter, then, fell the task of rescuing the skipper and the remaining men, while the other boats contented themselves with picking up a few survivors who had been carried clear when the Portchester Castle's decks had been swept by the breakers.

By dint of hard pulling, in spite of the shelter afforded by the lee of the stranded ship, Osborne contrived to get his boat within a few yards of the bridge. At one moment the projecting platform was towering twenty feet or more above the boat, at the next the latter's gunwales were almost level with it. All the while there was the pressing danger of the boat's bows being jammed against the underside of the bridge, or of her bottom subsiding, with disastrous results, upon the iron-work projecting from the submerged sides of the ship.

In Webb's case the task was simpler, though by no means free from danger. Watching his opportunity he ran close alongside the resilient main-shrouds, and succeeded in taking on board every man who had found a temporary refuge in that part of the rigging. He was now able to ride to leeward of the wreck by means of a long scope of cable, thus conserving the energies of the rowers until the hazardous dash through the surf to the shore.

The Sub could not help admiring the skill with which his chum Osborne went about his work, keeping the boat within a few feet of the bridge as the former rose on the waves. One by one the men leapt into the rescuing craft until only the skipper remained.

Then raising his hand in a last salute to the ship's white ensign, which was still visible between the crests of the waves, Captain M'Bride jumped agilely into the stern-sheets of the boat.

CHAPTER XV

Castaways on a Hostile Shore

A rousing cheer from the other boats greeted Captain M'Bride when it was seen that he was for the time being safe. It was a spontaneous tribute to the skipper's popularity. Even when faced with the possibility of being hurled lifeless upon the surf-swept shore, the ship's company "let themselves go".

There was a smile of confidence on Captain M'Bride's weather-beaten face as he acknowledged the compliment. He, too, had good cause to be pleased with the people under his command. He realized that, with men of that dogged pluck and cheerfulness in the face of danger, the traditions of the White Ensign would be maintained come what might.

And now began the nerve-racking ordeal of attempting a landing through the surf. Rowing steadily the boats approached the fringe of broken water, then each turned her bows from shore and backed. Whenever a breaker more dangerous than the rest bore down, the rowers pulled ahead until the foaming mass of water had swept past.

"We're getting on," thought Webb. "Only a couple of cables' lengths more, and all right up to now."

He dare not give more than a rapid glance shorewards, but it was enough to give him an inkling of what the reception would be; for on the crest of the low sandy cliffs were a dozen Arabs mounted on camels. The riders were crouching on the animals' backs, and holding their white burnouses close to their faces to shield them from the spray-laden wind. All were armed with rifles.

When the Sub turned his head and looked again the Arabs had vanished. Instead of remaining to aid the castaways, they had apparently ridden off to bring others of their tribe to plunder, murder, or carry into captivity any survivors who had the misfortune to fall into their hands.

Others in the boat saw the new danger. Had the presence of the Senussi been noticed earlier, the flotilla could have returned to the wreck and brought up under her lee, in the hope of rescue by the Restormel or other patrolling craft. It was now too late, for it was impossible to row against the wind and waves. The only hope was to effect a landing, hold the fierce Arabs at bay, and trust to the Restormel putting in an appearance when the weather moderated. Unfortunately, when the Portchester Castle was torpedoed the shock had thrown the wireless completely out of gear, and communication with her consort was out of the question. A wireless had been sent out an hour previous to the disaster; whether the Restormel had come to the conclusion that the Portchester Castle was on her way to Port Said, or whether she would guess by the absence of signals that the latter had met with a grave mishap, was merely a matter for conjecture.

But Tom Webb had other things at present to occupy his attention, for with an irresistible rush a mass of green sea poured completely over the boat, capsizing her and throwing her crew into the water.

The Sub was one of the few who were thrown clear. Some, trapped underneath the upturned craft, were unable to dive under the gunwales, owing to the buoyancy of their life-saving gear, until they had wrenched off their belts. Two were stunned by their heads coming into violent contact with the woodwork.

Caught by a crested breaker, Webb found himself being urged shorewards at a terrific speed. Presently his feet touched the sand. In vain he started to make his way to land. Gripped by the undertow he was dragged back until the succeeding breaker overtook him, hurling him forwards like a stone from a catapult. Again the wave receded. Prone upon the soft, yielding sand, the Sub endeavoured to obtain a hold by digging his hands into the treacherous shore till the receding mass of water drew him backwards to be again pounded by the next mountain of water. Boats' gear, hurled shorewards by the waves, was thrown all around him. Several times he was struck by heavy objects. Not only was he in danger of being drowned; there was also a likelihood that he might be battered into a state of insensibility by the flotsam.

For how long this state of affairs continued Webb had not the faintest idea. Nor did he know how his companions were faring, except that farther along the shore some saturated figures were staggering up the beach. He was fast losing count of time and place. Torpor was beginning to seize him in its remorseless, oblivion-giving grasp.

Suddenly his hands came in contact with the broken blade of an oar. The instinct of self-preservation was yet strong enough to enable him to take the remote chance that remained. Waiting until the next wave was beginning to run back, the Sub planted the slightly cambered piece of wood deeply in the sand. The broad surface held, despite the terrific backward drag of the undertow.

Directly the suction ceased, Webb staggered to his feet and began to make his way to safety; but before he had gone five yards he was flung headlong by the succeeding breaker, and the blade of the oar was wrenched from his grasp.

Before the backwash gripped him the Sub felt a hand grasp his wrist. He was just conscious of seeing Dacres with a line round his waist standing thigh-deep in the water, and hearing his cheering words of encouragement. Then everything became a blank.

When Sub-lieutenant Webb came to himself he found that he was lying under the lee of the sand-hills. A broad-leaved prickly bush afforded shelter from the sun, the rays of which were beating fiercely down upon the almost barren ground. His head had been roughly bandaged, and was supported by a rolled coat.

He was not alone. A dozen men, all in varying stages of recovery from a state of insensibility, were lying on the ground. At some distance, others were busily engaged in emptying boxes of stores that had been washed ashore and—ominous sight—were filling them with sand. Others were hacking at the prickly scrub and erecting a form of fortification known as a zariba. Apparently an attack by the Senussi was expected.

There was Osborne in coat and shirt, and with a strip of calico wrapped round his head to protect it from the sun, toiling as arduously as the seamen; Dacres and Fane, the latter with his arm still in a sling, were dragging heavy gear up from the shore. A short distance away was Captain M'Bride, inspecting the few rifles which had come ashore in the boats; with him was Dicky Haynes. Most of the remaining officers were safe, but there were some whom Webb would never again meet on this earth.

Taking into consideration the violence of the storm, the Portchester Castle's people had come off lightly. Of her complement of 215, four officers and thirty-two men were missing. With three exceptions, the passengers and crew rescued from the Sunderbund's life-boat were safe, while the Turkish airman, Afir-al-Bahr, had come ashore without injury.

Of the boats, only one was in a serviceable condition. The others had been smashed up on the beach by the surf before sufficient hands were available to haul them above the reach of the waves. Most of the gear had been saved, including twenty-four rifles, a couple of cases of ammunition, seven barrels of biscuits, some salt beef, and half a dozen barricoes of water.

Although the waves were still running high, the storm had nearly blown itself out. The shore was littered with debris. Several seamen were busily engaged in collecting everything that might prove to be of value from the wreckage.

At some distance from the shore was the wreck of the Portchester Castle, with waves breaking against those portions that showed above water. One of her funnels had vanished; the other was still manfully resisting the onslaught of the heavy breakers. Both her masts remained, while from the ensign staff that showed four or five feet above the waves the white ensign still fluttered in the strong breeze.

Osborne waved a cheery greeting to his chum as Webb regained his feet. The Lieutenant was too busy to "knock off" and yarn with him. Every moment was precious if the place were to be put into a state of defence before the threatened attack.

A short, round-faced man, whose headgear consisted of a white cap-cover, came bustling along the top of the dunes. It was Donovon, the ship's surgeon.

"Faith," he exclaimed, catching sight of Webb, "and what might you be doing out in the sun? Get back to bed this minute." And he indicated the scanty shade of the thorn bush.

"I'm all right, Doctor," protested the Sub; "I am really."

"So you think," rejoined Dr. Donovon. "If you're knocking yourself up, that is your affair; only I'd let you know that I've my hands pretty full without asking for more patients."

He hurried off to attend to other cases, leaving the Sub to speculate on the surgeon's warning. "All right" hardly described Webb's present state. He felt considerably battered about, and had a dull headache; but, he reflected, it wasn't playing the game to lie down when he felt capable of doing something to assist the general work.

"Mr. Webb!" called out Captain M'Bride, seeing the Sub approach.

Webb hurried up to the captain and saluted.

"Better? That's good," said the skipper. "Look here, muster a party and start digging a trench on the left of that wall of thorn bushes. Bring it at a sharp angle to the shore. Three feet deep will be enough, if you pile the displaced sand on the outside edge of the trench."

The young officer soon found half a dozen men who had figured on his watch bill. These, provided with the broken blades of oars, which formed excellent spades for throwing out soft sand, set strenuously to work despite the heat of the day.

"Strikes me there's somethink precious hard, sir," remarked an able-seaman after the party had been at work for twenty minutes. "Rock or somethink."

"Sandstone, possibly," replied the Sub. "No matter, you're nearly down to the required depth." The man plied his wooden spade vigorously in order to lay bare the supposed rock. Suddenly he gave an exclamation of astonishment.

"Blow me!" he exclaimed, "a bloomin' petrol tin."

With a strenuous heave he wrenched the can from its hiding-place. As he did so the sides of two adjacent tins were revealed.

"We've found what I believe to be a secret petrol store, sir," reported Webb to his skipper.

"Eh, what?" exclaimed Captain M'Bride, hurrying towards the partly excavated trench. "By Jove, Mr. Webb, it looks like it! Start one of those metal caps and see if the can really contains petrol."

The cap was removed. Webb poured a small quantity of the liquid into the palm of his hand. The spirit evaporated with remarkable quickness.

"Petrol right enough, sir," he announced.

"And there are dozens of cans here, sir," declared one of the men. "Sort of garidge for the Sahara General Omnibus Company, I'll allow."

"Wot's a garidge, Bill?" enquired his pal. "You means a gayrage, don't ye?"

The skipper, who had overheard the conversation between the two seamen, smiled grimly.

"Carry on, Mr. Webb," he said, "and dig up the lot. We've stumbled upon a German petrol depot—that's my belief—and before long we'll have an unterseeboot putting in an appearance."

"What shall I do with them, sir?" enquired Tom.

"Oh! reserve a couple," was the reply. "They'll come in handy for flares. Empty the others on the sand."

"One moment, Captain M'Bride," interposed Major Pane, who, noticing the excitement, had strolled up to satisfy his curiosity. "It's a pity to waste good stuff."

"Better to do that than allow it to fall into the hands of the enemy," remarked Captain M'Bride. "But what suggestion have you to make, Major?"

"Put a row of them about a hundred yards in front of the zariba," continued Fane. "In the event of the Senussi attempting to rush our defences we can set fire to the stuff."

"I fail to see how, Major," objected Captain M'Bride, "unless someone applies a light to it; and the effect is, to a certain extent, lost if we have to do that before the Arabs are actually over the line of tins. Remember we have no time-fuses."

"You have some good marksmen, I presume?" asked Major Fane.

"Some first-class shots."

"Then we could lash up this metal matchbox to one of the tins, and ignite the contents by means of a rifle-bullet."

"It might be feasible," remarked the skipper.

"I think I know of a better plan, sir," said Webb. "We have the Very's pistol and signal-cartridges. I saw them lying over yonder. At the critical time a few bullets could be shot at one of the tins, and, when the petrol runs out, it could be fired by a signal-bullet from the pistol."

"Ah, that's more like it, Mr. Webb!" said the skipper warmly. "Now set to work and get your men to place the tins in position. Heap sand on the outward face so that they are rendered as inconspicuous as possible. Meanwhile, Major, I think I will get you to pass an opinion upon our defences on the right flank."

The Sub had barely completed his task of constructing what was expected to form an efficient "fire barrage" when one of the seamen patrolling the shore gave the warning cry of "Submarine coming in, sir."

Almost simultaneously a rifle cracked from somewhere about five hundred yards inland. A Senussi sniper had approached between the sand-dunes, while, at a distance of a mile or so, was a large armed party of mounted nomads from the desert.

Sub-lieutenant Webb gave vent to a low whistle.

"A hot corner this time," he said to himself. "We're properly between two fires."

CHAPTER XVI

'Twixt U-Boat and Arabs

Had the discovery of the petrol store been made a few hours earlier, steps would have been taken to cope with the peril from the sea that menaced the castaways. The defences that had been hurriedly thrown up had been constructed against attack from the landward side; the possibility of being shelled from a German submarine had not previously been taken into account.

Hastily the British seamen set to work to strengthen the parados of the trenches, in order to convert it into an earthwork sufficiently strong to resist the comparatively light shells fired from the hostile submarine.

Bullets from the Senussi now began to sing over the heads of the defenders. Well it was that the Arabs were very indifferent shots at long range, otherwise they would have taken a heavy toll of the seamen who were obliged to present a fair target as they toiled in the open.

The German submarine, which had been approaching rapidly, had now eased down. She was running on the surface, showing her conning-tower and the whole length of her deck. She displayed no colours, but her two quick-firing guns had been hoisted from below, and were manned ready for opening fire.

"I feel pretty certain," said Captain M'Bride to Osborne as the officers kept the hostile craft under observation, "that that submarine is the one which bagged us—and the Sunderbund as well. She's been lying off-shore waiting for the weather to moderate in order to replenish her fuel, and now she finds her depot in our possession. It was a rotten blunder on her part, sinking the old Portchester Castle so close to her temporary base."

"If it hadn't been for the firing, perhaps she would have come right in, sir," remarked Osborne. "Now she has her suspicions."

"The wreck of the ship would in itself give her warning," said the skipper. "Besides, if she did approach we could do little or nothing. It's just as likely that there's an understanding between the Arabs and the Huns. However, we must take things as we find them, and not look for trouble before it comes."

Accompanied by Lieutenant Osborne, the Captain made a tour of the trench, where every man who possessed a rifle was kneeling in front of a loophole, ready at the word of command to pour a destructive volley into the approaching Arabs. At the left flank stood Webb, with the Very's pistol in his hand, awaiting the time to fire the petrol.

"Picturesque sight, Mr. Webb," remarked the Captain composedly, but at the same time his keen eye was trying to detect any sign of "jumpiness" in the young Sub. But there was none; beyond a slightly heightened colour, Webb was as cool as if he had been on the quarter-deck of the Portchester Castle.

Captain M'Bride had aptly described the scene that lay before them. The Senussi were approaching in all the barbaric splendour of their race. Some were on camels, others astride small wiry horses. With loose rein they would dash forward perhaps a hundred yards, wheel, and, firing their rifles somewhere in the direction of the foe, would tear back for fifty yards, repeating the manoeuvre and uttering shrill yells of defiance. On their flanks in the rear were crowds of men on foot, for the most part armed with long broad-bladed spears, two-edged straight swords, and circular hide shields.

Outnumbering the British by ten to one, the Senussi looked, and were, formidable. Had every man of the Portchester Castle possessed a rifle the odds would have been considerably lowered. With a Maxim the defenders could have regarded the onset as a foregone conclusion in their favour.

It was to be a tough and desperate struggle. Every man realized that—a fight to the death, for a worse fate awaited them should they fall alive into the hands of the savage foe. At all costs the Senussi must be kept on the far side of the sorry breastwork of sand and the hedge of thorns, otherwise sheer weight of numbers would decide the day.

And as if the situation were not serious enough, a U-boat was threatening to shell their puny defences.

"Don't throw away a single shot, men," cautioned the Captain. "Reserve your fire till I give the word."

"She's opening the ball, sir," exclaimed Osborne, as a shell from the U-boat hurtled through the air and exploded away on the right flank, sending up a huge cloud of smoke and sand.

"Wonder what damage that's done?" remarked Captain M'Bride.

"I'll see, sir, if you wish," said the Lieutenant.

"Do, by all means, Mr. Osborne," was the rejoinder. "I'll make my way to the centre and await you there."

Before Osborne returned, two more shells had been fired by the submarine. Whatever damage they might have caused, they also did good, for the bursting projectiles had the effect of cooling the ardour of the approaching Arabs. Absolutely fearless as far as bullets are concerned, they have a wholesome respect for high-explosive shells which would, in their opinion, render a True Believer a sorry spectacle when he came to present himself at the gates of the Mohammedan paradise.

"No casualties, sir," reported Osborne. "The first shell fell short; the others pitched thirty yards over. One has blown a big gap in our zariba, unfortunately."

"Strafe her!" exclaimed Captain M'Bride. "She'll be improving on that before long, I'm afraid."

Even as he spoke there came a loud rumble from seawards—a long drawn-out report, totally unlike the crisp bark of the German submarine's quick-firers. Where the modern pirate had been was merely a dense cloud of greyish smoke.

"She's properly strafed, sir," declared the Lieutenant delightedly, grasping what he absent-mindedly took to be his uniform cap, with the result that on removing his calico headgear he brought a handful of his own hair with it.

"Internal explosion," suggested the skipper. "Well, we've something to be thankful for. Half our difficulties wiped out in one fell swoop."

Slowly the smoke dispersed, for there was now practically no wind. The sea, momentarily agitated by the explosion, had resumed its oil-like aspect. Not a vestige of wreckage was visible to mark the grave of yet another of the inglorious pirates. It was indeed a just retribution. The U-boat, in common with other German war-ships, had been in the habit of discharging her torpedoes without previously setting the sinking mechanism according to the recognized rules of war. Therefore, in the event of a torpedo missing its mark, it would, at the end of its run, float, and thus become a sort of derelict mine, instead of sinking to the bottom as these weapons are supposed to do.

When the submarine attacked the Portchester Castle she had let loose two torpedoes, one of which hit the mark. The other, passing under the vessel's stern, came to a standstill a couple of miles off. By sheer chance the U-boat, while in the act of shelling the shore, had bumped upon the warhead of the missile she had discharged several hours previously, with the result that she was practically blown to pieces with all her officers and crew.

Three hearty cheers from the sun-baked British seamen greeted the strafing of the craft that was directly responsible for their present precarious position. Then, having given relief to their pent-up feelings, the sturdy sailors directed their attention once more to the danger that threatened them from the landward side.

The Senussi, not knowing what had occurred, and still showing considerable reluctance to enter the region where the German shells had fallen, were "marking time". The camel-men had withdrawn behind a range of sand-hills, but the glint of spear-heads denoted pretty conclusively that the foe had not decided upon a discreet retirement.

Several times an intrepid sailor stood upon the breastwork, with the intention of drawing the enemy's fire; but even this tempting bait did not succeed. The Senussi were evidently going to tire the defenders by a period of nerve-racking inactivity.

"It's this rotten waiting for something to turn up that makes you jumpy," declared Webb to Osborne, as during the prolonged lull the Lieutenant made his way along the trench to see how his chum fared. "I don't mind so much when these beggars start a rush, but it's the suspense of expecting them."

"Like our troops on the Somme," rejoined Osborne. "It's the five minutes' wait before the whistle goes for the men to go over the top of the parapet, that is such a strain. Once they're off they don't seem to notice their surroundings. But I've rather bad news, old man. I've just reported to the skipper that one of those shells has played Old Harry with the water barricoes. Only three left—and you can guess what thirst is in this sun-baked spot."

"How long will that last?" asked the Sub.

"Ten days with the utmost economy," said the Lieutenant gravely.

"I say, Osborne——" began Webb.

"Well?"

"Isn't it a good thing, after all, that poor old Laddie isn't with us? What a horrible time he would have without anything to drink!"

"He would have had half my share whatever happened," declared Osborne resolutely. "But, unfortunately, there is no necessity for that. I wish there were."

Webb made no further remark upon the subject. He knew that Osborne was still awfully cut up about the loss of his pet, and now, rather clumsily, he had touched upon the matter of the dog's death.

"We do look a pretty pair," he remarked, setting out on a fresh tack. "Our fond parents wouldn't recognize us if they could see us now."

"They would be very pleased to," was his chum's rejoinder; "or rather, we should both be most delighted to see them at home. I've had enough of African sands to last a lifetime. And these flies!"

A petty officer, mopping the perspiration from his face, wriggled past his comrades in the narrow trench, and approached the Lieutenant and his chum.

"Cap'n's compliments, sir," he said as he saluted. "He'd like to have a word with Mr. Webb."

Webb found Captain M'Bride consulting with the gunner and the bos'n. Seeing Webb hesitate, he signed to him to approach.

"I've a little job on hand, Mr. Webb," he said. "After due consideration I've decided that you are the best officer I can spare for the business. We're short of water. Up to the present there is no sign of the Restormel putting in an appearance to search for us. The niggers are evidently going to protract their assault and subject us to a state of siege. So since help is not forthcoming, we must fetch it. In short, I want you to take the whaler and make a dash for Crete. Mr. Cox" (indicating the bos'n) "has examined the boat, and finds that she's seaworthy. A few slight repairs will have to be made, but they won't take long. The distance is roughly 180 miles, but perhaps you'll fall in with a vessel before that."

"Hope it won't be a U-boat, sir," remarked the Sub.

"You're game? I need not remind you that it is a risky voyage for an open boat."

"I'm quite willing, sir," said Webb resolutely.

"As I thought," added the skipper. "Well, good luck! The weather looks promising, and ten to one you'll get a fair slant of wind directly you're a few miles from shore."

Delighted at the prospect of being afloat once more, yet reluctant to have to leave his comrades in dire peril, Webb hastened to make preparations for his hazardous voyage in the open whaler. He realized the risk—he also realized the tremendous responsibility, for if he failed in the enterprise the rest of the survivors of the Portchester Castle were doomed.

CHAPTER XVII

The Whaler's Voyage

Having selected his crew—a matter of personal difficulty—since no man cared to volunteer to exchange a post of peril for a duty only slightly less hazardous—Sub-lieutenant Webb proceeded to prepare the boat for her voyage.

The whaler was one of the Service type, twenty-seven feet in length. She had two masts, slightly raking aft, and carried "dipping lug" fore and mainsails—a powerful rig, but one that requires smart and careful handling when going about in a strong breeze.

The bos'n—the carpenter warrant officer having been lost in the struggle for the shore—had instructed the carpenter's crew to nail several pieces of planking across the bows, covering the rough deck with canvas from some spare sails. Empty barricoes, of which a number had been cast upon the beach, were lashed to the thwarts, thus affording considerable buoyancy in the event of the boat being capsized. These were the only alterations made in preparing the whaler for her run across to the distant island of Crete.

The number of hands selected for the voyage was the very minimum required to work the boat. More would unduly weaken the little garrison ashore; the victualling problem had also to be taken into account.

"I can only let you have a gallon of water, sir," decided the bos'n, "and dry biscuit and salt beef enough for two days. Sure 'tis short rations, but you know, sir, how things go. There are half a dozen lemons, too, sir; some were washed up before they had been in the water very long, so I don't suppose they're brackish. A fine thing to quench the thirst, Mr. Webb."

Having bade his comrades a hearty adieu, the Sub ordered the whaler to be pushed off. Three cheers were given for the voyagers, the compliment being returned in right good earnest by the boat's crew.

"Give way, lads," ordered Webb. "Long easy strokes. We'll soon pick up a breeze."

Steadily the shore receded. Ahead the placid water was ruffled by a dark-blue line that betokened a smart breeze. Sitting bolt upright and holding the yoke-lines, the Sub could not help at frequent intervals turning his head and looking back at the inhospitable sandy shore. So fierce was the sun that the radiating heat made the barren dunes appear to quiver, distorting objects ashore. Everything there seemed quiet. No rifle-shots pulsated on the still air. Beyond a few seamen, patrolling the beach to look out for further jetsam, there were no signs of life. The torrid heat had thrown its languorous spell upon Britons and Senussi alike.

"It's hot enough here, in all conscience," thought Tom. "It must be like a slow oven ashore." For an hour the men toiled at the oars, the sweat pouring from their brick-red faces; yet uncomplainingly they maintained their long swinging strokes, as if they were pulling across a harbour rather than setting out for a 180-mile voyage.

"Here's the breeze, lads," exclaimed Webb as a faint zephyr fanned his face. "Well on the starboard quarter, too. Stand by to make sail."

Thankfully the jaded men boated oars. Willing hands stepped the two masts, and quickly the powerful dipping lugs were bellying to the quartering breeze. The water gurgled pleasantly under the whaler's forefoot, while a long white wake was a silent testimony to the boat's speed through the blue water.

"Five to six knots now, sir, I'll allow," replied the coxswain in reply to his officer's query. "She's footing it fine."

"That's what I estimate," agreed the Sub. "If it holds, another thirty hours ought to bring us within sight of land."

"Not much doubt about it holding, sir," declared the man, glancing to windward. "Unless I'm much mistaken there'll be a power o' wind afore nightfall—more'n we'll want," he added under his breath.

"Cover up that hard tack there," ordered the Sub, as the first spray flew over the gunwale and threatened to soak the scanty supply of biscuits. "A pull on your fore-sheet there. That's better; now she feels it."

The whaler was moving now, cutting through the rising waves like a race-horse. Every stitch of canvas was drawing, while feathers of spray dashed over the weather bow. But, in spite of these encouraging conditions, the wind was backing slowly yet steadily. By sunset it was broad on the starboard beam.

As darkness set in Webb relieved the coxswain at the tiller. Few words were spoken between them, for the Sub's attention was mainly directed to windward, ready to cope with any sudden increase of wind. Either seated or lying on the bottom-boards, the men were engaged in the time-honoured custom of "chewing the rag" before "turning in" on their hard couch. Scraps of conversation caught the Sub's ears. He smiled grimly, for the boat's crew were not discussing the chances of the hazardous voyage, or the plight of their comrades they had left behind: an animated discussion was in progress as to which team won the English Cup in a certain year of that remote period previous to the outbreak of the greatest war the world has yet seen.

At eight bells the "watch below" turned in, their outlines just discernible in the starlight as, in unpicturesque attitudes, each sleeper adapted himself as comfortably to his individual tastes as hard and unyielding bottom-boards permitted. Their comrades, told off for the night watches, crouched under the lee of the gunwale, sheltering from the keen wind, for with the setting of the sun the temperature had fallen considerably. Clad only in sub-tropical uniforms and being unprovided with greatcoats, the men felt acutely the contrast between the heat of the day and the chilliness of the night. When at length the order came to reef sails, they obeyed smartly and cheerfully. The very act of doing something was as balm to their cold and cramped limbs.

Webb had been wise to reef in time. The wind was now for'ard of the beam and increasing in violence. Directly water showed a tendency to come over the lee gunwale he had given the order to shorten sail.

He was very anxious—not on account of the rising wind and sea, but because it was now only just possible to keep the whaler on her course.

"If the wind backs another point it will head us," he remarked to the coxswain.

"'Fraid it will, sir," was the imperturbable reply. "I'd as lief up helm and run for Malta as make board after board and not gain more'n a few yards to wind'ard."

The Sub had to admit the force of the petty officer's remarks. The whaler, being unprovided with a drop keel, would make a very indifferent performance to windward. There were no tidal currents to help her—the Mediterranean being tideless—and what "drift" there was would be against her, since the currents in this part of the vast inland sea are set up solely by the force of the prevailing wind. In these circumstances it might take a week or more to reach Crete, and by that time the comrades they had left behind would be conquered by famine, even if they succeeded in holding in check the savage foes who menaced them.

Yet there was another chance. The whaler would soon be in the regular steamer track between Port Said and the Western Mediterranean seaports. In normal times the probability of aid from passing vessels would be great; but now, owing to the U-boat menace, things were very different.

A moaning sound pierced the darkness of the night. In an instant Webb grasped the situation. A squall was sweeping down.

"Check sheets!" he shouted, at the same time putting the helm down ever so slightly, so as not to get the boat "in irons".

The squall hit the boat hard. Green seas poured over her bows, effectually awaking the sleepers. So fierce was the strength of the wind that the Sub was compelled to order the canvas to be close-reefed.

By dint of strenuous baling the whaler was kept afloat; yet she was sagging to leeward like an empty cask. Worse, the wind was now absolutely dead ahead, and more than enough for the meagre amount of sail that was still set.

"Think she'll stick it?" shouted Webb to the coxswain.

"No, I don't, sir," replied that worthy bluntly. "Better ride to our gear while there's time."

The petty officer's advice was sound. To attempt to carry on was a suicidal policy. As quickly as possible the oars and yard were lashed together, the foresail being still bent to its spar. To these a scope of grass rope was attached, and the whole of the gear thrown overboard, the kedge having been previously bent to the lower part of the canvas to ensure it floating "up and down".

To this rough-and-ready sea-anchor the whaler rode in comparative safety, for, although the seas were breaking all around, there was a complete absence of crested, dangerous waves in the wake of the floating gear, fifty yards ahead of the boat.

"So well, so good," thought Webb. "But, unfortunately, though we may have saved our own skins, the fact remains that we are not helping Captain M'Bride and our comrades ashore."

"She's riding handsomely, sir," remarked the coxswain. "And we've plenty of sea-room. Short and sharp this has been in coming up, and maybe 'twill be short and sharp when it does pipe down."

Slowly the minutes sped. The inactivity, combined with a prolonged lack of sleep, was beginning to tell upon the young officer. Once or twice he found his head involuntarily dropping on his chest.

"All right, sir," said the coxswain, who had "spotted" his superior officer's movements. "Just you have forty winks. Nothin' doin'; and I'll pass the word if there is."

It seemed less than a few minutes when Webb was roused by the petty officer touching him on the shoulder.

"Vessel o' sorts bearin' down, sir."

There was no time to be lost if help was to be forthcoming in that direction. Already the black outlines of a large ship were looming through the night mirk.

The whaler was without means of signalling. Webb found himself wishing that he had brought the Very's pistol with him, until he reflected that it might perform an even greater service in the defence of the zariba. There were no rockets in the boat; neither flashing lamp nor flare. Not even matches, for the very scanty stock had been used up in a fruitless attempt to light the binnacle lamp, which had been found lying in the bottom of the boat when she had come ashore half-filled with water. Nor was there a rifle on board. Every available weapon was required by the men facing the Senussi.

"Stand by to give a hail, men," cautioned the Sub. "When I give the word, then all together. Luckily she'll pass to leeward of us."

At Webb's order the night echoed to the stentorian tones of the whaler's crew. It must have been impossible for the officer of the watch not to have heard the combined efforts of the strong-lunged men.

"She's not slowing down, sir," said one of the men, after a pause.

"Give her time," replied the Sub, hoping against hope that the vessel would respond to the appeal for aid.

But no; instead of reversing engines she ported helm, and at full speed was soon lost to sight in the darkness.

"Rale haythens, sure they be!" muttered an Irishman indignantly.

Webb took the acute disappointment philosophically. These were times when unprecedented horrors encompassed the mariner—cold-blooded murder in the darkness of the night by cowardly lurking U-boats. Cases had been known of German vessels of war luring their victims to destruction by false signals of distress, and it was more than likely that the officer of the watch of the unknown ship, hearing the hail, had come to the conclusion that it was a decoy cry from a hostile submarine, and had altered her course in order to avoid a torpedo.

With the first streaks of dawn the wind moderated, although dead ahead. The seas, still high, no longer maintained their vicious, crested aspect. It was now safe to rehoist sail, and, accordingly, the sea-anchor was brought on board and the masts restepped.

The Sub had already made up his mind to steer westward. With luck he might reach Malta, or at least fall in with some of the numerous war-ships that make Valetta their base.

As luck would have it, the "traveller", or iron ring that runs up and down the mast and to which is attached the yard, was jerked upwards during the operation of making sail. Slackening the halyard made no difference. The elusive ring remained at a tantalizing distance of two or three inches above the tallest man's outstretched hand, and there was no boat-hook to bring it down.

Webb was about to order the mast to be unstepped, when one of the men swarmed up the swaying pole and recovered the "traveller". As he did so he happened to glance to windward.

"A sail!" he shouted. "Coming bows on."

For a few minutes all on board the whaler were in a state of suspense. The vessel was approaching rapidly, but to a great extent was obscured by the cloud of black smoke that was carried ahead by the following wind.

"Hurrah, lads!" exclaimed the coxswain. "She's a destroyer."

Soon there was no doubt on the matter. She was a large four-funnelled torpedo-boat destroyer with a red, white, and green ensign at each masthead, indicating her to be a unit of the Italian Navy. The one fly in the ointment was the disconcerting sight of the bow twelve-pounder gun manned and trained upon the whaler.

CHAPTER XVIII

In the Nick of Time

"Steady, lads! Aim low. Don't throw a single shot away."

Calmly and resolutely Captain M'Bride's voice travelled along the whole length of the trench. Every man possessing a rifle gripped the weapon resolutely, while the rest of the defenders, armed with whatever means of defence came to hand, braced themselves for the coming desperate struggle.

It was close on sunset. Not a breath of wind tempered the still stifling heat. The gale of wind that had beset the whaler had not yet reached the sun-baked sand-dunes where the Portchester Castle's survivors still held grimly to their scanty defences.

After a series of feints extending over the greater part of the day, the Senussi were at last about to make a determined onslaught. The camel-men had dismounted and sent their docile animals out of harm's way, but the horsemen had massed in a long curved line of foot. There was some semblance of military order in the array, taught no doubt by their former Turkish instructors, for on each flank, and on rising ground, riflemen were posted so as to pour a converging force upon the British, while the horsemen, supported by hundreds of dismounted Arabs armed with sword and spear, charged the extreme left of the defences.

This was a masterly stroke that Captain M'Bride had not anticipated, for here the trench ran in a diagonal direction to the sea, and if carried would expose the rear of the centre to a flanking and enfilading fire. But what the attackers did not know was the existence of a novel form of fougasse—the row of petrol tins.

Clearly the foremost of the assailants were visible in the slanting rays of the setting sun. Behind them followed a cloud of sand, thrown up by the horses' hoofs, through which could be discerned the indistinct forms of a howling mob of fanatical warriors armed with cold steel. In the forefront rode a tall bearded fellow with green jibbah and turban. With his right hand he brandished a long, straight two-edged sword, while in his left he bore a green banner with a scarlet crescent.

"They are not fighting under Turkish colours," remarked Captain M'Bride to Dacres, who stood by his side. "A sort of Holy War banner, I take it."

Evidently Afir-al-Bahr was of the same opinion, and, finding that he had not to fight against a force under the Turkish Crescent, he picked up a huge axe that had come ashore in one of the ship's boats.

"What's that fellow doing?" enquired the skipper hurriedly.

Dacres, whose service in Egypt had made him fairly proficient with the language of the Eastern Mediterranean States, spoke a few words to the Turkish airman.

"I think it's all right, Captain M'Bride," explained Dacres. "The man has no intention of breaking his parole. He knows quite well that if he should fall alive into the hands of the Senussi their treatment would be much worse than ours. He told me that some time ago a party of these meek and mild gentlemen mutinied, and murdered their Ottoman officers."

"Then let him carry on," decided the skipper. He gave a quick glance in the direction of the oncoming foe. The foremost were now within two hundred yards.

"Volley firing by sections—ready!"

A well-timed volley burst from the British trench. The high-velocity bullets, fired at point-blank range, wrought havoc in the crowded ranks of the Senussi. Saddles were emptied by the dozen, and before the stricken riders had time to fall to the ground the second section poured in a murderous fire.

Yet undaunted the Senussi pressed on, the standard-bearer, apparently unhurt, still brandishing his gleaming weapon. Then, slowly yet surely, he began to lean forward until he lay across the horse's neck. The banner dropped from his nerveless grasp just as a bullet, striking the animal on its white blaze, brought man and steed to the ground.

In an instant another Arab had snatched up the green flag, and, with redoubled shouts, the dense and now disorganized mob came thundering across the level stretch of ground in front of the zariba.

It was now Osborne's time to take up the work with which the absent Webb had charged him. Already one of the bright-red petrol cans had been holed by a couple of accurately placed shots, and the highly volatile fluid was escaping and soaking into the hot sand. The Lieutenant could even detect the pungent fumes of the evaporating spirit. Raising the short, smooth-bored pistol, Osborne pressed the trigger. The missile—a red rocket—burst against the perforated tin, just as the foremost of the assailants were leaping over the mound that partly concealed the line of tins.

The next instant flames shot twenty feet or more into the air—a fire so intense that the heat could be distinctly felt by the defenders of the trench, while the zariba quivered in the current of air set up by the sudden rise of temperature.

Five seconds later the adjacent tin exploded, and then another and another, until the tongues of fire darted a good fifty feet skywards.

That part of the attack was checked and beaten back. The fire barrage was impassable; but on the enemy's left their impetuous rush brought them right up to the zariba.

Dauntlessly the Arabs sought to tear away the prickly barrier. Rifles cracked, but the number of small arms at the disposal of the British was insufficient to annihilate—it could only diminish—the great superiority of the enemy's forces.

Several of the seamen, armed with knives and marline-spikes lashed to the end of oars and poles, rendered yeoman service by the use of these improvised pikes. Others, having provided themselves with a supply of large stones, hurled them across the intervening barrier at the nearmost of their assailants.

Nor was Afir-al-Bahr to be denied. With his axe he fought desperately, dealing smashing blows whenever a fanatical Arab succeeded in getting within reach.

For some moments the situation was extremely critical. The improvised pikes were no match for the long broad-bladed, razor-edged spears, and the advantage of fighting behind the zariba was fast disappearing as the fearless and desperate Senussi persevered in the work of tearing away the wall of thorns.

Against these tremendous odds the handful of the Portchester Castle's crew fought magnificently, making the best use of their ungainly weapons. British courage and dogged pluck were there. The men meant to hold their position at all costs, but already the numbers were being thinned by the relentless pressure of the Arab assault.

At this critical juncture Captain M'Bride, realizing that the British left was in no immediate danger—for the contents of the whole line of exploded petrol cans were blazing furiously—rushed up every available rifleman. In a few moments the attack, that had had every appearance of being successful, broke down. The Arabs melted away, the survivors retreating in disorder, leaving fifty or more of their number huddled in front of the partly demolished zariba, and others at varying distances from the defences.

"We've been and gone and done it now," commented Major Fane.

"How's that?" queried Dacres, as he held out his left wrist for his chum to apply a bandage to a deep but clean gash caused by the partly-parried thrust of a spear.

"We've fired all the petrol except the two tins we held in reserve. We have none available to repeat the dose."

"I fancy they've had quite enough, eh, what?" rejoined Dacres. "Thanks, old man, it feels absolutely all right. A trifle on the tight side, perhaps, but for an amateur, Billy, you know how to doctor a fellow. Hallo, Osborne; how goes it? My word, that petrol flare shook 'em up a bit; but we needn't have used the lot. I was just saying——"

"It is indeed unfortunate," interposed Captain M'Bride. "We certainly ought not to have used the whole quantity. I had no idea that it would make such a furnace. Nearly lifted my eyebrows off, by Jove!"

"It's my opinion that the Arabs won't come up for a second dose," remarked Dacres.

"If they do they'll exercise more caution," said the skipper. "We must be prepared for a night attack. I've told off a party to pick up the rifles, ammunition, and spears of the Senussi left on the field. Mr. Osborne, will you see that the zariba is repaired?"

The Lieutenant saluted, and hurried away to carry out the Captain's order. Already twenty additional Mauser rifles had been brought in, and about four hundred rounds of ammunition. These were served out to the seamen, the recipients being specially cautioned to keep the captured ammunition apart from the British Service cartridges, so that no confusion would arise in the event of a possible attack during the hours of darkness.

Osborne had not allowed the lessons of the grim conflict to pass without gaining useful hints. At his suggestion the zariba was increased in thickness, the height remaining the same, while the ground for a width of twenty yards in front was liberally "salted" with sharp-pointed thorns that were buried "business end uppermost" in the sand, leaving a couple of inches projecting as a trap for unwary and unshod feet.

Since there was not another fougasse to fire, the Lieutenant loaded the Very's pistol and lashed it to the stump of a bush about a hundred yards from the trenches. To the trigger he tied a thin piece of cord, obtained by unreeving the strands of a length of rope, and secured the other end to a picket driven deeply into the sand. In the event of any of the Senussi creeping up to the defences at night, contact with the cord would instantly give the alarm.

By dint of hard work, these preparations were completed before the short twilight gave place to intense darkness. It was now blowing hard from the nor'east, and, in spite of the fact that only a narrow strip of ground lay between the rear of the trenches and the sea, the defences were exposed to irritating clouds of fine sand that penetrated almost everything—even the intricate breech-mechanism of the magazine rifles.

"I wonder how the whaler is faring?" was the question that rose to the lips of almost every member of the shipwrecked crew, not once but many times. With the rising breeze the men realized that the boat had a dead beat to wind'ard, and that, even if she could still carry canvas, her progress towards the distant goal would be very, very slow.

The night was cold, for the sand radiated its heat with remarkable rapidity, while the on-shore wind was bitterly keen. Without adequate clothing the men suffered acutely, their condition accentuated by the quick contrast with the scorching rays of the sun during the day. Those not detailed for sentry work huddled together in the trenches, the wounded being provided with awnings fashioned from the boats' sails stretched between pairs of oars. Slowly the hours passed, for, although not a single watch belonging to the castaways had survived the prolonged immersion in salt water, a fairly accurate count of time could be kept by means of the position of certain well-known stars.

At about midnight the sky was overcast, and even this means of calculating time was at an end. In utter silence the sentries maintained a vigilant look-out, while their comrades either dozed fitfully or lay awake, shivering with cold, and on thorns of expectancy for the night attack.

Suddenly the tense stillness of the night was broken by a sharp report, followed by the appearance of a vivid light two hundred feet or more in the air. The Very pistol had been discharged.

Instantly the defenders sprang to their feet. Those having rifles manned the loopholes, opened the "cut-offs" of the magazines, and prepared to pour a withering fire into the expected mass of Senussi.

But nothing in the nature of a wild chorus of war-cries pierced the darkness. In the distance could be heard sounds of commotion amongst the Arabs, who had encamped at about two or three miles from the scene of the previous encounter. In front of the zariba all was quiet.

"Did you see anything, Wilson?" asked Osborne of one of the sentries.

"Nothing, sir," was the reply. "And when that rocket went off it was as clear as day, in fact my eyes are still dazzled by the light."

"Perhaps it was a sniper or a scout," suggested Dacres, who at the first alarm had hurried to his post.

"If so, I fancy he's made himself scarce," added Osborne.

"By the by, Osborne," remarked Major Fane, "did you set that cord up fairly tight when you fixed it to the trigger?"

"As taut as I dared," replied the Lieutenant. "It wanted only a four-pound pull to set off the cartridge."

"Then I fancy I can explain," continued the Major. "You didn't make any allowance for the contraction of the cord with the dew."

Osborne bit his lip. He was too straightforward to offer excuses. He knew perfectly well the effect of damp upon rope, and at this critical time he had omitted to make practical use of his knowledge. The false alarm had turned out every man when they badly needed sleep and rest.

The Very's pistol was reloaded and the trigger-line slacked off. Once more the men not on sentry sought to gain some hours of slumber in their uncomfortable surroundings.

The rest of the night passed without further incident, the enemy making no further attempt to molest the camp. With the dawn the defenders were roused. A small quantity of water, half a biscuit, and a morsel of salt beef were served out, and on this scanty ration each man had to exist for the next six hours.

"Where's that Turkish fellow?" enquired Osborne. "He hasn't put in an appearance for his food."

No one had seen him, for owing to his religious scruples the Ottoman aviator had constructed his shelter at a little distance to the rear of the trench.

"I seed 'im makin' for his caboodle just after that there set-to last night, sir," volunteered one of the seamen. "Shall I rout 'im out?"

"No, I'll go," said Dacres. "I can speak his lingo." And crossing the intervening stretch of sand he reached the artificial hollow that the Turk had dug out.

Afir-al-Bahr was lying on his side; his "prayer-carpet", which devout Mohammedans carry with them in all circumstances, was spread at his feet. To all appearance the Turk was sleeping peacefully—but it was the sleep of death. During the attack on the zariba he had received a mortal wound; yet, with a remarkable reticence, he had crawled away to die in solitude.

They buried him hastily in the hollow he had constructed. No volleys were fired over his grave—cartridges were too precious for that; no "Last Post" rent the air, since no bugle was available. Yet the homage of the Portchester Castle's ship's company to a brave and gallant enemy—a man who had done his level best to blow the ship to pieces, and had afterwards fought side by side with his country's foes—was none the less sincere.

Hardly had the last rites been accomplished when signs of renewed activity were visible amongst the Senussi. During the night their numbers had been augmented by other bands of desert nomads, until the present strength more than exceeded the force that had delivered the previous attack with such disastrous results.

Yet the Arabs appeared to be in no immediate hurry. Evidently they guessed that the defenders were scantily supplied with food and water. They could afford to wait until the British, faint with hunger, and weakening under the effect of the enervating, torrid atmosphere, would be unable to offer any strenuous resistance.

"I almost wish they'd make a move, by Jove, I do!" remarked Dacres. "Suppose I oughtn't to say it though, since the longer they wait the more chance we have of rescue; but it's slow work hanging on to a mound of sand and expecting those fellows to make a rush."

"Looks as though your half-expressed wish will be gratified, old man," replied Major Fane, as a swarm of white-robed men edged along to the right of the defenders' position, taking considerable care to keep good cover. "See their move? They're making for the beach. If they get behind us, there'll be the deuce to pay!"

The tactics of the Senussi necessitated a rearrangement of the defenders. At Captain M'Bride's order, those of the riflemen who had been armed with rifles taken from the dead Arabs were detached from the centre and moved to a flanking position, so as to command the approach along the shore. Those seamen who had brought their own rifles were still retained in front of the zariba, so as to check any frontal attack.

Meanwhile Osborne, assisted by two volunteers, boldly left the shelter of the trenches and began to dig up the scorched and blistered petrol tins. These they set up in a conspicuous place a few yards in front of the original line, coolly completing the task in spite of an erratic fire from the Arab sharpshooters.

"What's the move?" enquired Dacres when the Lieutenant returned safely to shelter.

"It may work; it's a little ruse," replied Osborne. "They'll see the tins easily enough. I've put the best side of them facing outwards. If they think that we'll be able to repeat the curtain-of-fire business, they'll think twice before making a frontal attack. It's quite bad enough to be taken in the rear of both flanks, without a direct rush."

"There's the green banner again," exclaimed Fane. "That looks like business."

"Steady, my lads," shouted the heroic skipper. "Let 'em have it."

The rattle of musketry sounded along the shore. The result surpassed all expectation, for, to the defenders' surprise, scores of Senussi toppled over on the sand, some writhing, although for the most part those who fell lay still. The rush ended abruptly, the rest of the Arabs turning and running at full speed for the shelter of the dunes.

"That's knocked the stuffing out of them," declared Captain M'Bride. "Now, lads, there's another haul of equipment."

A dozen or more of the seamen who did not possess rifles made their way through the zariba, and approached the fallen foe with the intention of despoiling them of their arms. While engaged in this task, quite fifty of the fallen Senussi sprang to their feet, and fell upon the tricked men. The ruse was disastrous as far as the defenders were concerned, for those remaining in the trenches dare not fire for fear of hitting their comrades. Before a rescue-party could approach, the over-eager despoilers, hopelessly outnumbered, were cut down to a man, while the cunning Arabs, pursued by a fierce fire from the vengeful defenders, succeeded in regaining the main body with severe losses.

The handful of the Portchester Castle's crew who had fallen in this daring ruse could ill be spared. Although they had fought and died gamely, and had accounted for more of the enemy than their own numbers, the relative loss went against the beleaguered force. They had gained experience at a high price.

Another grave discovery was brought home to the sorely pressed men. Their ammunition was running short. Magazine rifle-fire is apt to make heavy inroads upon the stock of cartridges, and, although the men had exercised considerable restraint and had hardly thrown away a single shot; the fact remained that the supply had dwindled down to less than a couple of hundred.

"And the worst of it is," confided Major Fane, "we have those four women—passengers from the Sunderbund—in our hands. They are as plucky as one could wish; by Jove, they are! If the worst comes to the worst——"

"Yes, Major," added Captain M'Bride quietly. "I understand. We must never let them fall alive into the hands of these brutes."

Throughout the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon the Senussi continued their wearing-down tactics, making numerous feints, either singly or simultaneously at different points; yet no definite attack matured. All the while a long-range fire was directed upon the defences, and although the enemy wasted prodigious quantities of ammunition the net result was two men severely, and four slightly wounded.

"Now they mean business, I fancy," said Major Fane, as a tremendous hubbub, in which the beating of drums figured largely, came from the enemy position. "These fellows seem to fancy the hours before sunset."

A vast semicircle of dark-featured Arabs, their strength now exceeding three thousand, told pretty plainly that the defences were to be rushed from all available directions. This time, save for a few exceptions, all the attackers were on foot, although in the centre rode another green-turbaned Amir, bearing the emerald-hued banner that was to bring victory to the Faithful.

Even as the survivors of the Portchester Castle stood ready for the order to open fire, the air was torn by the shrill screech of a heavy projectile, quickly followed by another and another. With a succession of terrific crashes, twelve-pounder shells burst fairly amidst the dense serried ranks of the Senussi. It was more than fanatical courage could stand. They broke and fled, leaving the green banner torn to shreds in the grasp of the lifeless Amir.

Too utterly done up even to cheer, the rescued garrison gazed seawards. Less than two miles from shore, and pelting onwards at a good twenty-five knots, was a British destroyer. It was rescue in the very nick of time.

CHAPTER XIX

Misunderstandings

We left Sub-lieutenant Tom Webb and the whaler's crew in the act of being rescued by a destroyer flying the Italian ensign. The vessel was the Bersagliere, a 28-knot boat armed with four twelve-pounders.

It was not sheer luck that brought it to the rescue of the Sub and his companions. The liner that had passed them in the night was not so callous as they had supposed. Although she dared not stop to investigate the cause of the shouting, fearing the presence of a hostile submarine, she had sent out a wireless message in the International Code, reporting on the circumstance, giving the approximate position, and suggesting the possibility of a U-boat.

The call was picked up by several patrolling war-ships, amongst them the Bersagliere. The latter being nearest to the position indicated, set off at full speed, and cleared for action in the event of meeting with a U-boat which had resorted to the device of using a decoy.

The Italian destroyer's people were unremitting in their attentions to what they supposed to be the sole survivors of a British naval craft. Not one of either officers or crew could understand English, nor could Webb and his men speak a word of Italian, and the Sub's endeavour to indicate by means of signs that the rest of the survivors were cast ashore on the Tripolitan coast, and were in dire peril from the Senussi, was fruitless.

The commanding officer of the Bersagliere did his best, but, unfortunately, with somewhat disconcerting results. He wirelessed in International Code the news that he had on board the sole survivors of the British war-ship Portchester Castle. The message was picked up and decoded by several vessels, and also the naval receiving station at Malta, and within a very short time of the rescue of the whaler's crew the inaccurate news was transmitted to the Admiralty.

Webb and his comrades were, of course, ignorant of this stage of the proceedings. They knew, however, that they were being taken in a nor'westerly direction by the destroyer—farther and farther away from the scene of the unequal conflict ashore. Instead of bringing aid to the hard-pressed Captain M'Bride and his handful of undaunted men, they were being spirited away to an unknown destination—possibly Castellamare or some other distant Italian naval port.

"'Spose these Eytalians thinks as 'ow they are doin' their level best," remarked one man to his "raggie". "Strikes me we're being bloomin' well kidnapped. Look 'ere, Ginger; you can 'andle a pencil. Just you draw a sort o' sketch of our chaps ashore, an' put a few niggers in. That might do the trick."

Ginger pondered. The trouble was to get pencil and paper. The rest was simple, for he had a strong reputation amongst his lower-deck mates as an artist.

The difficulty was overcome by boldly commandeering a pad and pencil from the Bersagliere's signalman, somewhat to the surprise of the good-natured Italian; then, surrounded by interested spectators of both the Allied navies, Ginger proceeded with his task.

"'Ere we are," he explained. "Them's the sand-dunes; 'ere's the skipper, Number One, an' Lootenant Osborne. This is the zayreber; them's the enemy. That orter do the trick, didn't it, mates?"

"'Spose so," admitted one of the whaler's men rather dubiously. "A little smoke chucked in would improve the picture, I'll allow."

The artist reluctantly admitted the force of the criticism, and proceeded to depict far more vapour than modern engagements with smokeless powder justified. Then, stepping up to one of the Bersagliere's officers, he tendered his handiwork.

The Italian took the drawing and examined it intently and sympathetically. He was obviously puzzled for some minutes. Then a smile lit up his olivine features, and he spoke a few words to one of his men.

"Guess he's off to explain to the skipper of this packet," declared Ginger's pal. "I knowed that 'ud do the trick."

But instead of making his way to the bridge the Italian seaman went below. The British tars regarded each other with feelings akin to consternation, nor was their surprise any the less when the man reappeared with a dish containing a "plum duff" liberally provided with currants.

The artistic idol of the Portchester Castle's ship's company was shattered.

"Arter all," decided the coxswain, "'tain't to be wondered at, Ginger. Those sand-dunes of yourn do look like the outlines of a 'spotted Dick', smoke an' all; but I guess the owner wouldn't be pleased to find he'd been mistaken for a bloomin' currant."

Almost immediately afterwards attention was directed in another direction, for a vessel was sighted on the starboard bow. In a few moments, for both craft were moving rapidly, the stranger was found to be the British destroyer Paradox.

An exchange of signals followed. The Paradox had been one of the vessels that had received the Bersagliere's wireless message, and it was with the intention of taking over the survivors of the Portchester Castle that she had made towards the Italian destroyer.

Once more Sub-lieutenant Webb trod the decks of a craft flying the white ensign; while the two destroyers, dipping their flags by way of a courteous international salute, proceeded on different courses the Bersagliere "holding on", while to her commander's astonishment he saw the British craft circle to port, and steam off at full speed in a south-easterly direction, instead of returning to her base at Suda Bay.

Webb had lost no time in explaining to the Lieutenant of the Paradox that Captain M'Bride and a considerable number of men were at bay on the Tripolitan coast; while to his surprise the Sub learnt of the inaccurate wireless message from the Bersagliere reporting the whaler's crew as sole survivors of the ill-fated Portchester Castle.

"We'll be in time yet, I think," remarked the commanding officer of the Paradox. "You reckoned to fetch Crete in an open boat and yet be able to summon assistance. We've saved you at least twenty-four hours. Yes, I'll see that a wireless correcting the previous inaccurate report is sent off; but I think I'll wait till we've seen this business through."

Upon approaching the coast Webb could distinctly hear the rattle of musketry. That was a good sign. It told him that Captain M'Bride and his men were still holding out.

At twenty-five knots the Paradox was soon within range of her twelve-pounders. In the slanting rays of the setting sun the dense masses of the Senussi could be distinctly made out. It was a target that could not well be missed.

Six rounds were sufficient. The Lieutenant-commander, standing on the destroyer's bridge, thrust his binoculars into their case with an emphatic snap.

"Good enough!" he exclaimed. "Cease fire—out boats!"

Bringing the Paradox to a standstill close to the almost submerged wreck of the Portchester Castle, and keeping between the latter and the shore—a precaution necessary should hostile submarines be in the vicinity—her skipper lost no time in taking off the survivors of the torpedoed armed merchant-cruiser. Yet before the evacuation of the zariba was accomplished night had fallen.

"I thought you would not fail us, Mr. Webb," was Captain M'Bride's greeting as he came over the side. "You've been very quick over the business. How did you fare when the wind piped up?"

"Sheer good luck, sir," replied the Sub modestly. "We were picked up by an Italian destroyer and afterwards transferred to the Paradox."

The skipper of the Portchester Castle kept his young officer engaged in conversation for some time, during which Webb's eyes were periodically turned in the direction of the returning boats. Yes, thank God! there was Osborne, apparently safe and sound; Dacres too, and Major Fane; most of the ship's officers whom Webb had left behind when he made his dash in the whaler.

At length his Captain dismissed him, and went below to enjoy the hospitality of the diminutive ward-room. Webb made his way across to where Osborne was standing.

"Hallo, old bird—back again, you see!" was the Lieutenant's greeting, informal, but none the less hearty.

"Where's Haynes?" enquired Webb, after returning his chum's salutation. "I've been looking out for him, but all the boats have returned."

"You're a bright lad not to spot your chums," rejoined Osborne. "He was one of the first to be brought off. He got it badly almost at the last lap—a gunshot wound in the side. Donovon's got him in hand now. 'Fraid Haynes' career in the Service is a closed book."

"Sorry to hear that," said the Sub. "I only hope you're wrong, Osborne."

"Wouldn't be the first time," admitted the Lieutenant. "I made a fine mess of things ashore just now." And he told his chum the episode of the Very pistol.

"Do you know where we are bound for?" he continued.

"Port Said—so I heard the Navigating Lieutenant of the Paradox say," replied Webb. "I was hoping that it was Malta; still, one mustn't complain after what we've been through. Not that we'll find Egypt particularly exciting just for the present. From all accounts there's precious little doing."

But Sub-lieutenant Webb was mistaken in his surmise. Before very long he was to find that the Land of the Pharaohs was anything but a place for an uneventful existence.

CHAPTER XX

The Desert Wireless Station

"Donkey, sah? Good donkey, sah? Me good dragoman. Talk Englis' like Englisman, sah. Me good——"

"Oh, chuck it, do!" exclaimed Osborne. "No can do; savee?"

It was on the outskirts of Alexandria. Osborne and Webb, already "bored stiff" with the doubtful charms of the sun-baked Egyptian seaport, were longing to be afloat once more. Up to the present their wishes in that direction had not been gratified. In common with the rest of the surviving officers and crew of the lost Portchester Castle, they were resting, first at Port Said and then at Alexandria, pending Admiralty instructions and appointment to another ship.

Early on this particular afternoon the two chums had gone for a walk beyond the limits of the town. It was a glorious chance to tramp on a broiling hot day, in a place where almost everyone rides, and then only when it is necessary to be out and about. It was the time of siesta, or midday rest, but the superabundant energies of the two young officers were not to be denied. Both carried revolvers—a precaution rendered necessary by the existing conditions of the Egyptian frontiers.

Barely had they drawn clear of the squalid native quarter when they were assailed by the demonstrative attention of a swarm of 'Gippy donkey-boys, whose natural cupidity overcame their curiosity at the sight of two Englishmen braving the scorching heat of the sun.

By dint of very forcible language, backed by a pretence of forcible methods, Osborne had succeeded in freeing himself and his companion from the undesired attentions of the mob, with one exception. The latter, a tall, sparely built fellah, hung on like a leech.

"Tomb of Ctesos, sah," he vociferated. "Not far. Far to walk, but not far for donkey, sah. Twen'-fivee piastres" (up went the fingers of his right hand five times to emphasize the point) "all de way. Dirty cheap, sah."

Osborne hesitated and was lost.

"Tomb of Ctesos?" he repeated. "H'm, I've heard of it. Sort of ruined pyramid, I believe, Tom. Well, it's something definite to do. How about it?"

"I'm on," replied Webb. "Figuratively, of course. When it comes to the back of a donkey it may be a different matter."

"The brutes look quiet enough," resumed Osborne, eyeing the three sorry-looking donkeys, who were continually flicking their ears in a vain attempt to rid themselves of the tormenting attentions of a swarm of flies. "All right," he added, addressing the donkey-boy. "Twenty-five piastres, mind!"

The 'Gippy extended a grimy, sunburned hand. "On de nail," he exclaimed, making use of one of many English idioms that he had picked up in the course of his dealings with tourists in pre-war days, and with British and Australian troops since the outbreak of hostilities.

The officers smiled. The words, coming from the lips of a dark-skinned Egyptian, tickled them. The fellow's eyes looked so pathetic and trustful that Osborne obligingly paid for the hire of the animals.

Evidently the guide was not going to exert himself by walking. Throwing himself upon the back of the third donkey he urged the brutes into a steady trot, yelling the while in a jargon of English and Arabic, and belabouring the animals with a stick.

"Avast there!" said Osborne authoritatively. "Stop it! Not so much of the stick business. They'll go just as well without."

The "boy"—he was a man of between twenty-five and thirty—obeyed, but only for a time. Ere long he began to thrash the animals again.

"For the second time, stop it!" thundered the Lieutenant.

The donkey-driver muttered something under his breath. A momentary scowl flashed across his olivine features. If looks could kill, Osborne would have been stretched lifeless in the desert.

On and on the donkeys went, sometimes trotting, at others plodding stolidly through the sand; for already the cotton-fields had been left behind, and nothing but the desert could now be seen, bounded on the right hand by the intricate swamps of Lake Mareotis. Before they had gone five miles, both the officers discovered, to their great discomfort, that their mounts possessed very aggressive backbones, the pain from the sharp edges of which the meagre native saddle did little to mitigate.

"How much farther?" enquired Webb.

"Not far," was the 'Gippy's non-committal reply.

"Hanged if I don't think the rascal is taking us past the place," declared Osborne, indicating a solidly constructed building on the left, at a distance of about three-quarters of a mile.

The donkey-boy saw the gesture.

"No, sah, no," he expostulated earnestly. "Him no good. Nothing dere; empty. Tomb of Ctesos, sah, him be right dere."

"Dash the tomb of Ctesos!" declared Osborne. "It's not good enough. Look here, Ali Babi; we've chucked the idea. We'll have a look at this place instead. We may find shelter from the sun, and get back in the cool of the evening."

The suggestion did not at all meet with the native's approval. Obviously he had strong reasons against falling in with the proposal.

"Evidently our dusky dragoman considers this to be a breach of contract," observed Webb.

"Can't imagine why," rejoined Osborne. "If what he says is correct with reference to the direction of this precious tomb, we're saving his animals a considerable distance. He who pays the piper calls the tune, you know; so let's be firm."

Accordingly, the two officers turned the donkeys in the direction of the ruined building that Osborne had indicated. With ill-concealed sullenness the Egyptian slowed down, riding at twenty paces in the rear of the chums.

Suddenly he gave vent to a shrill cry. Instantly the animals that Osborne and Webb were bestriding came to a dead standstill; then, keeping their forefeet planted firmly in the ground, they lashed out furiously with their hind legs.

In vain Webb attempted to keep his saddle. Describing an inelegant curve he alighted on his head in the sand. Fortunately the softness of the ground deadened the impact; but, feeling considerably shaken, he regained his feet to find Osborne sitting regarding him ruefully. As for the donkeys, they were skeltering off more quickly than they had done before in the course of that afternoon, while the 'Gippy, still astride his mount, jeered at his employers until he was out of ear-shot.

"The fellow's got his own back," admitted Osborne, laughing at his own discomfiture. "And we paid him beforehand, worse luck! No matter! we'll carry on now we're about it, and inspect this ruined show. If we start at four o'clock we ought to be back before sunset, and it won't be so oppressively hot to pad the hoof."

"We're taking a long time to cover this half-mile," remarked Webb, when after a steady tramp the ruins seemed no nearer. "Suppose it isn't a mirage, what?"

"Hope not," replied Osborne. Then he had to admit that the real distance had been diminished by the vagaries of the atmosphere. Although the tomb, or whatever it might be, was a real object, it had seemed to be less than three-quarters of a mile away when Osborne first noticed it. Actually it was four times that distance.

At last they approached the elusive building. It consisted of a rectangular central edifice with a few smaller buildings attached. The roof was originally a dome, but the greater portion had fallen in. Fronting the main portion was a row of weather-worn pillars of red sandstone, ground smooth by the action of the sand-storms of centuries. In places the portico still remained, but was evidently in a very insecure state.

"Hallo!" exclaimed Webb, who with true scouting instinct had been examining the ground. "Look here; someone has been here recently. We're just converging upon the track of a couple of men and a led camel."

"Yes," agreed Osborne, "and Europeans, too; or at any rate not barefooted felaheen or sandalled Arabs. Well, I suppose they have a perfect right to come here, as much as we have—perhaps more if they have fixed up their abode in this desirable suburban residence."

"There's the camel," said the Sub, indicating the humped animal which, hobbled in characteristic Arab fashion, was standing in the shade of a partly shattered wall. "No signs of the owners. We'll have to be careful, old man. We don't want to intrude upon these fellows if they are engaged in their devotions. If they are Mohammedans they are bound to be pretty sensitive as far as the presence of unbelievers is concerned."

For the last hundred yards the two chums maintained silence. Their footfalls made no sound on the soft sand. At the lofty entrance they paused. The dense shadows, in contrast to the powerful slanting rays of the sun, made it impossible to see what was within the place until their eyes grew accustomed to the violent transition from the glare to a deep gloom.

Suddenly Webb grasped his companion's arm.

"Hist!" he whispered.

His trained ear had caught the faint cackle of a wireless apparatus.

For some moments the chums stood motionless. The sounds came from an apartment either built in the thick walls or else in a raised outbuilding. Presently the message ended, and the two men began to engage in conversation, speaking in Arabic—a language of which both Webb and Osborne knew but a few words, acquired during their brief stay in Port Said and Alexandria.

Both officers drew their revolvers. Clearly this was a time for action. The ruins were not a Government telegraphic post. Since the Western Egyptian Frontier campaign that ended in the defeat of the somewhat formidable Senussi rising, a quantity of wireless gear, known to have been smuggled ashore with other warlike stores for the use of the enemy, had been unaccounted for. So thorough had been the methods adopted by the Turks and their German taskmasters, that even the nomad Arabs of the Tripolitan hinterland had been instructed in the use of the most modern form of telegraphy.

When sufficiently accustomed to the gloom, Osborne advanced cautiously, Webb following at his heels. Guided by the sounds of conversation they crossed the floor, where the dust of years lay ankle-deep, until they came to a flight of stone steps, flanked on either side by gigantic stone images representing two grotesque Egyptian divinities, seated with their hands resting on their knees and their orbless eyes staring blankly. So smooth were the carvings that they might have been chiselled yesterday, instead of several centuries before the Christian era.

Up the flight of stairs the two officers crept. The illicit operators, still engaged in an animated conversation, were unaware of their presence until with a bound Osborne entered a small room on a level with the roof of the portico, and covered them with his revolver.

Even as he did so he recognized one of the men as Georgeos Hymettus, the Greek spy, who in the disguise of Alfonzo y Guzman Perez had furnished the U-boat officers with information concerning the movements of shipping at Gibraltar, and who had so nearly been laid by the heels by Osborne and Webb during their adventurous trip to Algeciras.

"The world is small, my festive Hymettus," observed Osborne suavely. "Now, kindly put your hands up and give no trouble."

CHAPTER XXI

"A Proper Lash Up"

Finding himself covered by Webb's pistol, the Greek's companion promptly extended both arms above his head as a token of surrender.

The fellow was attired in characteristic Bedouin dress. His face was of a deep olivine, his features being partly concealed by a heavy black beard and by the front of his burnous. In the folds of his voluminous sash were thrust an automatic pistol, and a couple of knives of Arab manufacture protected by sheaths of undressed leather.

"Take charge of that gentleman's armoury, old man," said Osborne. "It seems most discourteous to deprive such a meek and mild old buffer of his playthings, but needs must!"

Webb complied, dexterously removing the knives; but, just as he was taking possession of the pistol, the latter slipped from his grasp and clattered on the stone floor. With a deafening report one of the cartridges exploded.

In a trice the wily Hymettus saw his chance and took it. With a swift sideward movement he interposed the body of the Arab between himself and the muzzle of Osborne's revolver; then turning, he dashed for a narrow doorway with the Lieutenant in pursuit.

"About turn; off you go!" ordered Webb, unconsciously addressing his prisoner in English. "No hanky-panky tricks, mind, or I'll shoot!"

He pointed to the opening through which the Greek and Osborne had vanished. The Arab obeyed, still keeping his hands above his head.

The doorway opened upon the flat roof of the portico. Without was an expanse of stone slabs, roughly fifty feet by ten. In front and on one side a parapet of about thirty inches in height afforded protection from a sheer drop of thirty feet to the ground. On the remaining side no such wall existed, owing to the partial collapse of the masonry. Where the portico had fallen, the face of the building was pitted with holes, caused by the wrenching away of the dovetailed stones. Each aperture formed a convenient foothold, and from this hazardous path to safety Hymettus ran. Could he but make his precarious way along the sheer face of the wall, comparative safety awaited him, for beyond was a place where one man could defy a hundred unless his assailants were provided with ladders.

But at the brink of the riven masonry the Greek paused irresolute. The sheer drop had more terrors than the weapon of his pursuer. Before he could finally make up his mind, Osborne, laying aside his revolver, gripped him by the neck and laid him on his back.

Hymettus made no attempt at resistance, but the Lieutenant, mindful of the previous encounter on Spanish territory, was taking no further chances. With a sailor's deftness he bound the spy's arms behind his back, and secured his ankles with a length of leather belt that enabled the prisoner to make a stride of a bare eighteen inches.

"That's all serene," remarked Osborne with a tone of relief, as he regained his feet and took possession of his revolver once more. "Now, old man, we've a good ten miles to tramp, with two villainous rascals for company."

"How about the camel?" enquired Webb.

"I haven't overlooked the fact," rejoined the Lieutenant. "It's not much use to us as a mode of conveyance. After our meteor-like flight from the backs of those donkeys, I don't fancy an aerial perch on a ship of the desert. Humanitarian reasons won't permit us to leave the beast to die of starvation in this sand-blown spot. We'll make the Greek ride, and that white-livered Arab will conduct the brute. If they attempt to sheer off—well, that's where our revolvers will come in handy."

"And the wireless gear?" asked the Sub.

"Let it stop as evidence. The Royal Engineers will see to that to-morrow. Now, best foot for'ard: it's a long, long way to Alexandria."

To his unbounded relief Osborne convoyed the prisoners into the open. He was unfeignedly glad to get clear of the frowning walls of the ruined building, with its labyrinth of side passages and weird nooks and crannies.

"Now then, don't lag," said Webb sharply, addressing the Arab, who seemed loath to keep up with his fellow-prisoner.

The man shot a curious glance at his captor and stood stock-still.

"No, you don't," continued Webb, giving the prisoner a sturdy shove. "We mean business, my bearded friend. Thank goodness I have a pistol in my hand and you haven't. I wouldn't trust you with a halfpenny."

Thus urged, the Arab resumed his pace, until they came to the spot where the camel was hobbled.

"I suppose the Greek hasn't any weapons concealed about him?" enquired Webb.

"Trust me for that," was the Lieutenant's reply. "I passed my hands over his carcass right enough. Now then, Ben Hazi Notion, or whatever your tally happens to be, bear a hand and hoist this rascal up."

The Arab spoke a few words to the camel. The animal immediately crouched on the ground.

"I say, this condemned nigger understands English," declared Osborne. "He knew exactly what I said. Now, how far is it to Alexandria?" he asked, addressing the Bedouin.

But the latter's face wore a mask of imperturbability. When the question was repeated, he rolled his eyes and raised his hands with a gesture of utter incomprehensibility.

"He must have guessed what I meant," commented Osborne as he signed to the Arab to make the camel regain its feet.

Progress was tediously slow. The camel would not be hurried, while the two Englishmen found that the sand was growing more and more fatiguing to their feet as mile after mile was covered in the still hot sunshine.

The Arab trudged stolidly, holding the gaily coloured head-rope of the ship of the desert. At intervals the Greek would give furtive glances around the horizon, as if he expected help to be forthcoming from some quarter of the trackless desert.

By the time the weary officers reached the outskirts of the cotton-fields the sun was low in the west, and the lengthening shadows betokened the fact that soon it would be night. A few of the felaheen peasants, still toiling, paused in their work to contemplate the unusual spectacle of a couple of Englishmen trudging at the tail end of a camel, while a Greek—there were many such in Alexandria —rode, seemingly in indolent ease, upon the animal's back.

Ahead, silhouetted against the sky, could be discerned the lofty lighthouse of Ras - el - Tin, dominating the slender minarets, and the masts of the shipping in the harbour. Just then the still air was rent by the shrill blast of a bugle. The sound was taken up in other parts of the town, while, as if to emphasize the contrast,'twixt East and West, the voices of the muezzins calling the Faithful to prayer could be faintly distinguished amidst the warlike notes of the bugles.

[Illustration: "PROGRESS WAS TEDIOUSLY SLOW"]

"I won't be sorry to have a jolly good meal and a rest," remarked Osborne. "We'll have to be sharp if we are to get in before sunset. With two slippery customers like these, our work will be cut out to prevent them giving us the slip."

"It's only that Greek rascal that worries me," said Webb. "The other fellow doesn't seem to have the courage of a worm, the sagacity of a bat, or the energy of a snail. Hallo, here's a squad of 'Gippy troops!"

Marching at the quick step affected by the native African troops, the white-clad soldiers drew near, all but the leading files enveloped in clouds of dust. At their head were two British officers in white tropical uniforms, and wearing the scarlet tarboosh of the Egyptian Government service.

Seeing the two naval men approach with their bound prisoners, the officer in command ordered the troops to halt.

"Hallo, what game has he been up to?" enquired the Major, indicating the secured Hymettus. "Trying to rob you, and caught a Tartar, eh?"

Briefly Osborne explained the situation, adding that he would be greatly obliged if the prisoners could be handed over to the custody of the military until the Lieutenant could report the facts to the Senior Naval Officer.

"Certainly," was the reply. "I'll furnish a subaltern's guard. Mr. Fordyce!"

"Sir!" replied an alert, bronzed Second-lieutenant.

"These two men are to be marched back under escort. See that they are placed in the guard-room. You will be responsible for their safe custody."

At an order from a tall, smiling-faced, native sergeant, who appeared to take a delight in having a rascally Greek in his charge, Georgeos Hymettus descended from his lofty perch. Surrounded by men with fixed bayonets he was hurried off to a distance of fifty yards, while other soldiers took up their position around the Arab prisoner.

The latter, now that his companion in misfortune was out of ear-shot, addressed a few rapid sentences in Arabic to the British Major. Then, to Osborne's and Webb's astonishment, the officer drew them aside, at the same time halting the escort and signing to the Arab to follow.

"The courage of a worm, the sagacity of a bat, the energy of a snail, by Jove! Gentlemen, I begin to feel particularly cheap."

Osborne stood stock-still, dumb with amazement. Webb, hardly able to realize the situation, looked at the speaker with ill-disguised astonishment. The utter surprise of being reminded of his own words, by a man who appeared to be a genuine Bedouin, literally took the wind out of his sails.

"Thanks for a very pleasant afternoon!" continued the disguised prisoner. "It is indeed most unfortunate that your misplaced zeal prompted you to raid friend Georgeos's secret wireless station. I've been on his track for weeks. I may as well introduce myself as Major Ferriter, of the Intelligence Staff. If necessary, my friend Major Scott here will guarantee my bona fides."

"For weeks?" echoed Osborne. "Then why didn't you nab the spy before? He must have been doing tons of mischief."

"Not so much as you have done by chipping in," replied Major Ferriter. "Unwittingly, of course, but none the less unfortunate. I assume that what I tell you will be treated in strict confidence. For nearly two months the authorities have been aware of the Greek spy's activities. He was shadowed from Barcelona to Athens, and thence to Port Said. I was instructed to keep in touch with him, and as luck would have it I succeeded. In this disguise I completely hoodwinked him; lived with him; assisted him at his work of espionage—only I took care to transmit the messages sent by wireless from the German U-boats to the Eastern Mediterranean myself. It paid the Government handsomely to let the fellow pursue his activities. It enabled us to account for nearly a dozen hostile submarines, and now you've put the hat on it all."

"Couldn't you arrange to escape with the spy?" enquired Osborne, almost panic-stricken at the result of his unintentional blunder.

"Might," replied Major Ferriter. "Only Hymettus might smell a rat and slip away to some more congenial atmosphere. I must think it over. Now, Scott, I think you had better hand me over to the tender mercies of your men. I must keep up the disguise a little longer, but for goodness' sake, old man, see that I am smuggled out as soon as it is safe to do so. After weeks of existence upon dates, pilau, and goats' milk, I pine for the flesh-pots of civilization."

Osborne and his chum waited until the supposed Bedouin prisoner was marched off under escort; then, bidding the infantry Major farewell, they set off in the gathering darkness, to their quarters.

For some minutes they spoke not a word; but when at length the Lieutenant broke the silence, his remark was brief, forcible, and to the point:

"My word, old bird; what a proper lash up!"

CHAPTER XXII

The Fouled Propellers

For the next few days the chums heard nothing more of the spy and his disguised tracker, nor did they deem it wise to make enquiries. It was not until the end of the week that news circulated rapidly through the native quarter to the effect that a Greek and an Arab, arrested by order of the Kafir authorities, had broken out of their place of detention. Europeans "not in the know" heard the same story. Vaguely they wondered how such an escape could be effected, in the face of the strict measures taken for the safe custody of malefactors and criminals. And when Osborne and Webb were told of the incident they glanced at each other in a way that denoted that they were not at all surprised.

"We'll hear more about Georgeos Hymettus," declared Webb.

One morning orders were received for the surviving members of the ill-fated Portchester Castle's ship's company to hold themselves in readiness for embarkation on the transport Sinai, which was about to sail for Malta.

Dacres and Major Fane had already bidden farewell to their former companions in peril. They had left a few days after the Paradox arrived at Port Said—the former for England, the Major, with his leave cancelled at his own request, to resume duty with a Soudanese battalion somewhere in the vicinity of Khartoum.

"Looks like getting into harness again," remarked the Sub on hearing the news. "Well, I, for one, am not sorry. Things are a bit slow out here, in spite of our little encounter with the spy. And I'm afraid we didn't shine over that."

"A common failing with fellows who take on the amateur-detective business," commented Osborne, who was never reticent in owning up to the errors for which he was responsible. "However, that's over and done with," he added cheerfully. "A little bird whispered to me that we're to be sent to the Grecian Archipelago. From all accounts there's going to be trouble with the so-called Royalist section of the Greek nation. The rotten way in which these fellows are carrying on is enough to make any self-respecting Greek of ancient history literally squirm in his grave. There's only one thing, in my opinion, that prevents Tino's army from marching northwards from Athens, and taking the Allied forces at Salonika in the rear."

"And what's that?" enquired Webb.

"The Navy—the British and French fleets," replied the Lieutenant. "With Athens and Corinth under the guns of the fleet, and a stern reminder that 'He who is not for us is against us', the double-dealing Tino will have to tread warily."

Early on the following day the depleted ship's company of the Portchester Castle boarded the vessel that was to take them to Malta. Under her quarter-deck awnings Osborne and Webb were pacing up and down, looking, without any qualms of regret, at the sun-baked town and port of Alexandria.

At that moment a small coasting steamer, flying the Greek mercantile ensign, fussily slipped from the quay-side and steamed seawards.

"She's bound for Crete with stores for the Venezelists," remarked Osborne. "I saw her departure mentioned in yesterday's orders."

The Lieutenant was right, up to a certain point. Had he known exactly the nature of the vessel's cargo, he might have evinced far greater interest in her; for, stowed away in the dark and ill-ventilated fore-hold, was the spy Hymettus.

On his escape from prison—a feat rendered comparatively easy by the connivance of the authorities—he decided that the wireless business was far too risky—at least for the present. He had also developed a sense of distrust against his supposed Arab accomplice, notwithstanding the active aid given him by the latter in shaking off the bonds of captivity. He had, therefore, succeeded in giving Major Ferriter the slip, and, by his intimate knowledge of the native quarter of Alexandria, had been able to secrete himself until arrangements were made for him to stow himself away on board the Greek tramp.

The Sinai's run from Alexandria to Valetta was brief and uneventful. There was not even a false alarm of the appearance of a U-boat's periscopes. For the present, at least, German submarines had been effectually "warned off" the Egyptian coast; yet, as there was likely to be a fresh outburst on the part of these modern pirates, the authorities were strenuous in their efforts to anticipate the next display of maritime frightfulness.

"By Jove, what luck!" ejaculated Osborne soon after the Sinai had moored to a buoy in the Grand Harbour. "I've got a command, Webb, my boy. They've given me 0916."

"Good luck, old man!" replied Webb heartily; then with a tinge of regret: "I suppose it means that we won't see much of each other in future."

"Wrong again, my festive," said Osborne. "You've been appointed to the same packet."

"That's good," declared the Sub. "Any idea what she's like?"

"Yes; a Yankee-built, sixty-footer motor-patrol boat. You know the type well enough: V-sectioned with flush deck, and a small chart-house and steering platform for'ard. She's a flier, from all accounts. Goes twenty-six knots with her three eight-cylindered 160-horse-power motors. She carries two officers and a crew of six."

"Sounds promising," remarked Webb. "Wonder where our cruising ground will be?"

"In and around the Archipelago," replied the Lieutenant. "Part of our duties is, I believe, to dance attendance upon the sea-plane carrier, Fleetwing. She's a stranger to me, but I dare say we'll both make her acquaintance before very long. Well, buck up, and get ashore. Here's a tender coming alongside. We've quite enough to do before Monday."

With the commissioning of 0916, Osborne for the first time assumed full responsibility as the skipper of a command. Used, since his entry into the Merchant Service, to the huge bulk of a steamer, he might have found the quick, lively motion of the sixty-footer decidedly awkward, had it not been for his previous experiences on board an eight-ton yacht. Nevertheless the handling of a twenty-six knotter, especially in a crowded harbour, required considerable skill combined with a steady nerve.

"It's the first few hours that count," confided the Lieutenant to his subordinate and chum Webb, as the patrol-boat prepared to cast off for a preliminary run into the open water of the Mediterranean. "I remember a chief officer in the Royal British and Pacific—a fellow with forty years' experience. His Company gave him command of one of their tugs—a sort of comfortable home billet to fill in the rest of his time. Hang it if he didn't run full tilt into a caisson the very first trip, battered the face of the caisson like an old tin can, and buckled the bows of the tug till they resembled a concertina! That little bust-up cost the Company a cool ten thousand pounds."

Fully equipped with stores, provisions, and munitions, and carrying six hundred gallons of petrol, No. 0916 stole cautiously towards the mouth of the harbour. Not until St. Elmo Point was broad on the port quarter did Osborne give the order for full speed ahead.

With a jerk the powerfully engined craft leapt forward. It gave Webb the sensation of being on a lift that had been started too suddenly. With the spray flying in silvery cascades on either side of her knife-like bow, the patrol-boat cut through the water at a dizzy speed, yet docile to the touch of the helmsman's hand.

Suddenly a nerve-racking jar shook the frail craft. Her starboard propeller was still running normally, tending to thrust her head to port, while the port propeller, having struck some wreckage, had been "brought up", stopping the motor almost dead.

"Fouled something, by Jove!" ejaculated Osborne. "Be sharp there, Wilkins. See if there's anything round the blades. Hope to goodness they're not 'stripped'."

"No fear of that, sir," replied the man addressed. "The blades have held, or the motor would have started to race. I see it, sir," he added, as he leant over the broad transome and peered into the limpid water. "It's a length of rotten grass rope round the boss as tight as a chunk of metal."

The Lieutenant also surveyed the cause of the mishap. Round and round the port propeller, and "laid" as evenly as rope round a drum, was a length of two-inch grass line. About twenty feet of this still trailed astern, terminating in a piece of painted wood.

"Some boat's old mooring broken adrift," commented Osborne. "Horrible nuisance, to say the least of it."

"We can run back with the starboard engine, and get the dockyard divers to clear it," observed Webb. "Fortunately we're not so very far off."

"Beastly ignominious," objected the Lieutenant. "Crawling home like a lame duck on one's trial trip. It seems to me that if we go easy astern, both engines, the reverse action will unwind the rope."

"But——" began Webb.

"I'll try it, at all events," decided Osborne, without waiting to hear his chum's objection. "Easy astern!"

With the motors well throttled down and the two clutches slipped in as easily as possible, No. 0916 gathered sternway; but, before the propeller had made fifty revolutions, the starboard engine was stopped by a steady yet irresistible strain. Ten seconds later the port propeller, momentarily freed from the rope, fouled the obstruction and wound it round the shaft in the opposite direction.

Osborne had omitted to take into account the trailing length of rope, and now the patrol-boat was helpless, drifting at the mercy of the winds.

Attempts to turn the heavy fly-wheels round by hand proved unavailing, so firmly were the propeller shafts held in the vice-like grip.

"I'll strip and dive in, sir," volunteered the intrepid Wilkins. "Maybe I'll be able to tease the ends clear."

"No, I think not, Wilkins," replied the youthful skipper, giving a glance at the fairly lifting waves. "You'll get your head stove in if you attempt to try conclusions with her quarter. It's humiliating, but we'll have to send out a wireless for assistance."

The patrol-boat was now drifting broadside on towards the shore, the nearest points of which were distant about a mile and a half. Between these, a deep bay that contracted with comparative regularity could be discerned. To the nor'west the greater part of the island of Gozo opened clear of the smaller island of Comino.

A cast with the lead gave fifteen fathoms. For the present there was no need to anchor. With safety the disabled craft could approach until the depth shoaled to five fathoms.

"No immediate danger so long as the ground tackle holds," declared Osborne. "There's a fair amount of wind, and a decent sea, but they'll send out a vessel to tow us back in less than an hour, I fancy."

Webb, too, thanked his lucky stars that the weather conditions were moderate. He found himself picturing a huge unwieldy vessel, with her gaping seams held together with ropes, drifting helplessly towards that self-same shore, notwithstanding the ineffectual drag of four anchors cast from the stern. For No. 0916 was off the mouth of St. Paul's Bay, the reputed scene of the Apostle's shipwreck upon the "island which is called Melita".

Webb's reveries were interrupted by the sight of a huge grey shape coming into view round a projecting cliff. The shape gradually resolved itself into a large transport, outward bound for the Near East, and making for Valetta en route.

"Pretty rotten pickle!" ejaculated Osborne savagely. "Here we are as helpless as a log, and in full view of those fellows."

"I don't suppose they'll notice us," said Webb. "We're lying close in. I say," he added, laying down his position-finder, "we're drifting pretty rapidly; isn't it about time we dropped the hook?"

"Yes," assented the Lieutenant. "We'll anchor at once. All clear for'ard?"

"All clear, sir."

With a plash the mass of metal disappeared beneath the waves, taking with it nearly forty fathoms of chain before Osborne gave the order to check the cable. No. 0916, no longer drifting broadside to wind and waves, rode jerkily at the end of the length of chain.

By this time the transport was in full view at a distance of one-and-a-half sea miles, and was slowing down in order to prevent damage to the shore by her bow wave.

"Periscopes on the port bow, sir!" shouted one of the patrol-boat's crew, indicating with his outstretched arm a couple of objects that looked like a pair of short sticks, at a distance of less than a hundred yards.

Osborne realized the situation in the twinkling of an eye. The U-boat, for such she undoubtedly was, had been lying in wait for passing vessels worthy of her attention. It was a piece of the greatest audacity on her part to attempt to operate within a mile of the island of Malta; but, hearing nothing of the nature of a propeller churning the water in her immediate vicinity, she had come to the conclusion that it was safe to display the tips of her periscopes. And now, within easy torpedo range, was a large vessel packed with troops and munitions.

Osborne gave the word to open fire. In spite of the "lively" platform, the gun-layer of the for'ard quick-firer was equal to the occasion. In a trice a gleaming cylinder disappeared into the open breech-block of the gun. The metallic clang, denoting that the breech-block had been closed, had hardly sounded when the weapon barked.

The eyes of all on the patrol-boat were fixed on the target—the two pole-like periscopes that were now almost in line as the submerged boat swung round so as to bring her torpedo-tubes to bear upon her intended victim.

A column of water thrown fifty feet in the air hid the gun-layer's objective from them. A cloud of smoke denoted, however, that the shell had struck something offering more resistance than water, while, in addition, there was no ricochet.

What happened to the U-boat was never known. Whether she sank like a stone, or was able to crawl blindly for some sheltering lair, remained a secret; but the transport passed on her way unmolested.

Three hours later, No. 0916 was safely berthed in Valetta harbour. Here the fouled rope was removed and slight defects made good.

"After all," remarked 'Webb, "perhaps it was a jolly good thing that we did get into that little jamboree. It was a fairly exciting trial trip, eh, what?"

CHAPTER XXIII

Driven to Destruction

Three days later, No. 0916, in company with three other patrol-boats of similar type, left Malta for Grecian waters. They were not alone, for acting as a parent ship was the sea-plane carrier Fleetwing.

Osborne would not have recognized in the Fleetwing one of his old vessels of the Royal British and Pacific Company. In pre-war days she had been employed as an intermediate steamer between Vancouver and Yokohama, calling at Honolulu each way. In those days she was known as the Flightaway, and was painted black, with white deck-houses; she sported two funnels and two masts, the former being colour-washed in a vivid yellow hue.

In her new rôle the renamed vessel was completely disguised. A uniform garb of "battleship grey" covered her from truck to water-line. Her foremast had disappeared, while, from her bows to well abaft the position of her funnels, a long, gradually sloping platform had been built for the purpose of enabling the sea-planes to ascend while the vessel was under way. Then, since the foremost funnel interfered with the "clear run" of the launching platform, it had been removed, and a pair of smaller ones erected in its place, so that the Fleetwing now had three funnels set on a triangular base—two well abreast, the third and original one being on the centre line.

As if these drastic conversions were not enough, the ship had been (to use a nautical expression) "gutted" aft, and a huge tank built in. The top of this was flush with the upper deck, while its base was far below the water-line. In this receptacle were stowed four large "kite" balloons, while adjacent was the necessary gear for inflating and repairing their unwieldy yet necessary fabrics.

Practically the whole of the remaining portions of the main deck was a vast repairing workshop. High-class machines of all sorts and descriptions filled every available space, while a veritable forest of belting gave a stranger the impression that he was in some large factory ashore, rather than on board a converted liner. There were also carpenters', plumbers', shipwrights' and painters' shops—in short, every necessary for the care and maintenance of those delicate yet supremely important adjuncts to a modern navy—the sea-planes.

Had it been considered desirable, the patrol-boats could have been slung on board the parent ship; but, as the weather was fine and the sea comparatively smooth, No. 0916 and her consorts were to proceed under their own power in order to give their crews an opportunity of manoeuvring in company.

Somewhere to the south'ard of Cape Matapan, the Fleetwing received wireless information that a large German submarine had been particularly active in these waters, and, while expressing the advisability of extreme vigilance, the authorities ordered that steps should be taken to capture or destroy the enemy.

Towards the position in which the U-boat was last reported seen, the patrol-boats sped, keeping a far-flung formation extending over a front of three miles. A mile astern came the Fleetwing, while overhead flew a couple of sea-planes of the most recent type.

They were tri-planes with a huge wing-spread of over two hundred feet, the planes being in adjustable sections to ensure compact storage and rapid assemblage. Power was supplemented by means of six 200-horse-power motors, coupled in twin units and driving three 15-feet propellers. While taxi-ing on the surface a water-propeller was provided, giving the sea-plane a speed of fifteen knots; while when in flight her speed could be altered at will, ranging from a minimum of 40 to the terrific rate of 180 miles per hour.

Each of the sea-planes carried a crew of ten men, and was armed with a 3-inch non-recoil quick-firer; while as a specialized means of offence against submarines she carried a torpedo-tube discharging a 3-inch projectile.

The torpedo was fired by the ignition of a small charge of petrol gas, and could be aimed with considerable accuracy. At the head of the weapon was a small fan, the use of which was to prevent premature explosion of the charge on impact with the surface of the water. The depth at which the torpedo exploded could be regulated by adjusting the fan to a certain position on its threaded axis.

The sea-planes had been up for less than ten minutes when a wireless was received reporting the position of the quarry. The U-boat was "sounding" at a depth of twelve fathoms—too deep for the aerial torpedoes to reach with accuracy. Her grey hull could be discerned by the airmen with tolerable ease as she lay upon the sandy bottom.

It was now the Fleetwing's task to get the submarine to bestir herself. The German captain would be too wily to attempt to rise to the surface with the churning of four high-speed propellers sounding over his head. So the patrol-boats eased down while the sea-plane carrier forged ahead, thrashing the water with her twin screws, the sea-planes describing vast circles over the spot where the U-boat lay.

Presently another message was received that the submarine was moving. She was about to take stock of the apparently solitary vessel. If she did rise to the surface the patrol-boats could almost with certainty destroy her, either by gun-fire or by ram. On the other hand, if she exposed the tips of her periscopes only, such tactics would not be likely to result in definite destruction.

Breathlessly Osborne and Webb awaited developments, ready at the first warning to urge No. 0916 at full speed towards the enemy.

Still the sea-planes circled. It was the only means of keeping in touch with their prey, for the former were travelling through the air at fifty miles an hour, compared with the latter's maximum submerged speed of fifteen knots. Trained downwards, and only a few degrees from the perpendicular, were the grey-painted torpedo-tubes of each tri-plane.

Presently the upward movement of the U-boat ceased. Her periscopes rippled the surface. Something glistening shot from the sea-plane nearest overhead. Like a silvery dart the object plunged seawards, struck the water with hardly a splash, and disappeared.

Almost simultaneously a column of foam was hurled skywards, to the accompaniment of a muffled detonation.

"Missed!" was the laconic wireless message from the air-craft that had discharged the missile. "She's heading nor'east."

Two more aerial torpedoes were fired, with no better result than to send the U-boat scurrying off at a depth of ten fathoms. It was now the patrol-boats' turn to take up the pursuit.

Directed by the aerial pilots the four swift craft converged. Then began a sort of marine waltz, the lively vessels dodging to and fro, circling and crossing each other's bows in a most daring fashion —all with the idea of confusing the fugitive U-boat.

In this they succeeded. With their nerves shaken by the narrow escape from the explosions of the torpedoes, and in the knowledge that they were hunted by an unknown number of the dreaded patrol-boats, the Huns were literally in a panic. Their sole idea was to keep at a safe depth and steal away from their pursuers, trusting that the latter would be unable to discern their presence by the "surface wake" and the trail of air-bubbles.

But the U-boat had reckoned without the sea-planes. Remorselessly, the wireless reports from the observers kept the patrol-boats in close touch with their prey. Ceaselessly, the churning of the small yet powerful propellers betokened the grim fact that for once the modern pirate could not shake off pursuit.

Suddenly a huge air-bubble rose to the surface, agitating the water in ever-widening circles. No. 0916, fairly in the thick of the maelstrom, was swept from fo'c'sle to taffrail. Then, almost as quickly as it had risen, the sea calmed down under the influence of a rapidly-spreading patch of iridescent oil.

"How about it?" wirelessed No. 0916.

"Get out of the light and we'll see," was the sea-plane's laconic reply. Then a minute later: "She's properly strafed."

In her blind dash for safety the U-boat had crashed, bows on, against a rock that rose abruptly for ninety feet to within nine fathoms of the surface. In spite of her strong construction the steel bows collapsed like an egg-shell. An inrush of water under terrific pressure followed, and yet another of the Kaiser's boasted submarines had ceased to exist, save as a waterlogged wreck upon the bed of the Mediterranean.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Chase of the Felucca

"Strange sail bearing N.N.E. seven miles: No. 0916 will proceed and investigate." This was the reading of a signal hoisted on the Fleetwing within four hours of the destruction of the submarine.

The sea-plane carrier and her convoy had now entered the southern limits of the AEgean Sea. Broad on the port quarter could be discerned the rugged outlines of the Grecian peninsula, while ahead were the distant Cyclades, a veritable jumble of small islands, most of which are well-known names in ancient history, when Greece was Greece—a resolute and hardy nation compared with which the modern Greek nation is as clay in relation to steel.

It was now towards Milos, the nearmost of these islands, that a small felucca-rigged craft was making. Had she held on her former course, which was N.N.W., she might not have aroused the suspicions of the Fleetwing's officer of the watch; but on sighting the lofty hull of the sea-plane carrier the felucca had promptly hauled to the wind. That in itself was a strange manoeuvre, since the wind was in a quarter that enabled her to have a leading breeze on her former course.

"Let her rip!" ordered Osborne, addressing the motor engineer-artificer. "We want to get this job over before dark, if possible. I suppose," he added in an aside to his chum, "it's only another wild-goose chase."

"We're generally lucky," rejoined Webb the optimist. "However, I shouldn't think that yonder craft is likely to cause trouble. My word, isn't she footing it!"

The last sentence referred to the patrol-boat, which was now cleaving the tranquil waters at a knot above the contract speed. Her powerful motors had been running sufficiently to enable them to be "tuned up" to perfection. She was overhauling the felucca hand over fist.

Upon seeing the unwanted motor craft approach, the sailing vessel, knowing that escape by flight was out of the question, fell off on her former course, at the same time hoisting her colours. By the aid of their binoculars Osborne and Webb made the simultaneous discovery that the felucca was a Greek—or at any rate that was the nationality she wished to assume for the present.

"By Jove, they're heaving something overboard!" declared the Sub. "I distinctly saw splashes under her counter. Wonder if they are mines?"

"I'm sorry for those fellows if that is the case," said Osborne grimly. "At any rate, if we don't follow in her wake we're safe enough. Other questions dealing with the matter will be tackled later."

Apparently the crew of the felucca were particularly anxious for the objects they had thrown overboard to sink; for, finding that a couple of almost waterlogged bales were floating astern, one of the men leapt overboard and slashed furiously at them with a knife. Then, his task accomplished, finding that he could not overtake the sailing craft, he struck out for the distant shore.

"Think he'll do it?" enquired Webb. "It's a fearful long way."

"Yes, I do," replied Osborne. "These Levanters are splendid swimmers, and the sea is particularly warm. He's good for ten miles, I should say. However, on second thoughts, I think we'll pick him up, and then devote our attentions to the felucca."

The swimmer, finding that the patrol-boat had altered helm and was heading in his direction, took in the situation most philosophically. Treading water he awaited the approach of his captors, and, grasping a rope thrown to him, swarmed on board with the greatest agility.

"Me think you German ship," he explained nonchalantly.

As he stood dripping on the deck his face was towards the setting sun. On the other hand, the two officers who were confronting him were standing back to the dazzling light.

"Oh, indeed!" rejoined Osborne, signing to two of the crew to stand by. "German ship? No, you won't get me to swallow that yarn, Georgeos Hymettus."

At the sound of his name the Greek started violently, and made an attempt to throw himself overboard. In this he nearly succeeded. For, as he had divested himself of his clothing as far as the waist in order to swim the better, his wet skin afforded little hold. After a brief yet furious struggle he was secured and taken below.

By this time the felucca was less than two cables' lengths ahead. Her crew must have observed the struggle on the patrol-boat's deck. Without waiting to be hailed, they promptly lowered the huge lateen sails and awaited their captor's approach.

"Now what's all this running-away business about?" enquired the Lieutenant, addressing a gaudily dressed Greek who was evidently the skipper. "Where are your papers? Where's your passenger list? I find you had a passenger," he added significantly.

The master disappeared into a small deck-house abaft the mainmast. Webb, revolver in hand, followed.

Meanwhile the two dozen ruffianly-looking fellows who formed the felucca's crew—she carried an unusually large complement—had gone for'ard, and were standing in a group around the primitive windlass. Amidships were Osborne and two of the patrol-boat's crew. Two more were standing on No. 0916's deck, fending her off with boat-hooks. The remaining members of the crew were down below in the motor-room.

Suddenly the muffled report of a revolver shot rang out, and a moment later Webb reappeared, holding the still smoking revolver, and with his left hand clasped firmly against his mouth. He was gasping heavily, while his eyes were twitching with pain. By his movements his chum saw that he was incapable of seeing.

"This way, Tom!" shouted Osborne. He could not go to the aid of his chum, for, with the report of the pistol shot, the rest of the crew of the felucca made a concerted rush upon the handful of British. Flourishing their knives and uttering wild yells, in the hope of striking terror into the breasts of their numerically inferior antagonists, they came tearing aft, headed by a tall, broad-shouldered man brandishing an automatic pistol.

Osborne and his men stood their ground. But for the fact that Webb had been temporarily rendered incapable, they would have retired to the deck of the patrol-boat, sheered off, and made good use of their quick-firers. Until the Sub's rescue was assured, his comrades had to make good their front.

An excellent shot from Osborne's revolver brought the mate of the felucca sprawling on his face. Three others of the crew were stopped by the British fire, but even then the rush was maintained, two of the Greeks making in the direction of the hapless Sub, who was groping towards his comrades.

With a bound Osborne gained Webb's side, grasping his shoulder with his left hand. At the same time he dropped one of the Sub's two assailants, while the other, making no further attempt to close, hurled his knife with deadly precision at the Lieutenant.

Stepping adroitly aside, Osborne missed the glittering blade by a hair's-breadth. The missile, sinking a couple of inches into the hardwood tiller, quivered like a twanged harp-string. Simultaneously Webb's revolver dropped from his grasp.

To retreat, leaving the weapon for the use of the enemy, was to court disaster. Since Osborne could not stoop to recover it without running grave risks of being taken unawares, he kicked the revolver overboard, and, still holding Webb's shoulder, dragged the unresisting Sub to the side.

Here the two seamen were still holding their own, though hardly pressed. One, bleeding from a clean cut in the left shoulder, had already accounted for three of his assailants. His revolver being empty, he had snatched at a knife that was sticking in the bulwarks. His companion, using his weapon with deadly skill and precision, had disabled four before the hammer clicked ineffectually upon the empty chamber.

Grasped by the coxswain of the patrol-boat, Webb was hauled unceremoniously on board his own craft. Now remained the task of the rest of the boarding-party, to regain the deck of No. 0916 without giving the felucca's men a chance of rushing them during the retrograde movement.

At this critical juncture the bowman of the patrol-boat created a diversion. Taking a turn with the bight of a rope in order to hold the two vessels, the seaman sprang to the felucca's deck, brandishing the gun-metal-tipped boat-hook. Under the formidable blows dealt by the hefty bluejacket, the Greeks went down like ninepins. Knives were as nought when opposed to the powerfully wielded pole of ash. Heads were cracked like egg-shells, arms snapped like match-sticks, and shin-bones broken like glass under the shower of blows. Even in his work of self-defence Osborne could not help admiring the business-like work of his stalwart coxswain.

The struggle was over. Osborne, well-nigh breathless with his exertions, was compelled to lean against the wall of the deck-house. Those of the seamen who had come out of the ordeal practically unscathed, busied themselves by collecting the knives of the vanquished crew of the felucca, and securing the treacherous Greeks who had not been reduced to a state of unconsciousness or helplessness. One by one the prisoners were passed below into the recesses of the felucca's hold, the hatches were clapped on, and the British white ensign hoisted in place of the mercantile flag of a treacherous and effete nation.

By this time darkness was on the point of setting in. The short period of twilight was giving place to intense darkness, for there was no moon and the stars were obscured by opaque clouds. The Fleetwing and the rest of the patrol-boats were already lost to sight.

Having recovered his breath, the Lieutenant went on board No. 0916. He found Webb lying on deck, his head supported by a bundle of sailcloth, and one of the bluejackets bathing his face with sea-water.

"How goes it, old man?" enquired Osborne.

"Better now," replied 'Webb, striving somewhat ineffectually to force a smile. "That brute suddenly threw something in my face—ammonia, I fancy. Just had time to fire my revolver, and then I found myself gasping for breath. Felt as if my throat was gripped by pincers, and my eyes were completely bunged up. Yes, thanks, I can see, but it's still mighty painful. How's the Greek skipper?"

"Dead as a bloomin' door-nail, sir," volunteered the seaman who was assiduously attending to the injured Sub. "You plugged him properly, sir. Served the swine right, I'll allow."

"S'pose so," admitted Webb. "I wonder what it was that those fellows hove overboard?"

"I wonder," rejoined Osborne. "We may find out yet, especially as we have our old pal Georgeos Hymettus laid by the heels. Well, old man, excuse me; I've a lot to attend to."

And Osborne spoke without exaggeration. Here he was, with some of his scanty crew disabled, with a prize on his hands, and out of touch with his parent ship, while in addition it was black night with a dangerous and badly charted shore under his lee. It was "up to him" to extricate his command from the difficulties that beset her, and with characteristic grit and determination Osborne set about his task.

CHAPTER XXV

An Unknown Antagonist

Lieutenant Osborne's first step was to take the captured felucca in tow. Leaving one man on board to attend to the helm, he steered the patrol-boat ahead, with a hawser made fast to the bitts of the prize. A wireless message was then sent to the Fleetwing announcing the successful issue of the enterprise, and requesting further instructions. After a brief interval the sea-plane carrier replied:

"Under urgent orders for Salonika. Take prize into Mudros and report to Senior Naval Officer."

"Hallo, something in the wind," soliloquized Osborne. "Urgent orders for Salonika. That looks like business. Meanwhile we're entirely on our own, and confronted with the task of navigating the felucca into Mudros. Well, I suppose there are worse jobs knocking around."

Yet the order involved work of no mean skill. Osborne was a stranger to the waters in the vicinity of the Cyclades. Once clear of that dangerous locality he was in well-known "ground", but there was the always present danger of a hostile submarine. In ordinary conditions the swift patrol-boat was more than a match for the U-boat, but, hampered by her tow, No. 0916's superiority in speed and manoeuvring was eliminated.

[Illustration: "THE GREEKS WENT DOWN LIKE NINEPINS"]

A glance at a chart, or even at a map of the AEgean Sea, will give some idea of the intricate navigation that called for Osborne's skill and courage. Dozens of islands lay athwart the direct course, reefs abounded, while intricate currents traversed this part of the tideless sea in directions that were hardly ever constant. A change of wind might divert the current eight or ten degrees without having any appreciable effect upon its velocity, while, in addition, the islands were badly lighted, especially during this critical epoch in the history of modern Greece.

Throughout the night Osborne remained on deck, standing in the low wheel-house beside the helmsman. Fortunately the sea was calm and the glass high, while there was little or no shipping about, which was as well, since No. 0916 and her tow were without navigation lights.

When day broke, the Lieutenant snatched a few minutes' well-earned rest, awaking to find Sub-lieutenant Webb touching him gently on the shoulder.

"Yes, fit as ninepence," replied the Sub in answer to Osborne's enquiry. "But that's not the reason why I roused you. There's a strange-looking packet coming up astern. She's overhauling us pretty rapidly."

Osborne leapt from his bunk, buckled on his belt, and rammed his cap on his head the rite of "dressing" when on active service.

"Is she showing her colours?" he asked.

"Nothing," replied Webb. "We signalled her, but she took no notice."

Upon gaining the deck the Lieutenant found that the overtaking vessel was a steamer of about five hundred tons. She looked like a yacht with her schooner bows, raking masts, and white topsides. He estimated her speed at about fourteen knots, and since she was following almost in the wake of No. 0916 and her tow, it seemed fairly evident that she was desirous of making a closer acquaintance with the patrol-boat.

The unanswered signal, "What ship is that?" still fluttered from the yard-arm of the patrol-boat's diminutive mast, and since the wind was blowing steadily abeam there could be no doubt of the ability of the stranger to read the flags.

That in itself was suspicious; yet what hostile nation was there that would dare to send a vessel, other than a submarine, into waters firmly held by the Allied fleet? And of the countries bordering the Mediterranean Sea the only one strictly neutral was Spain. It was very unlikely that a Spanish yacht would be cruising in these waters, and especially so for her to stand in pursuit of a British armed craft.

Osborne glanced at the felucca. The helmsman had just been relieved, No. 0916 slowing down to enable the change of crew to be effected.

"All right there, Smith?" he hailed.

"All correct, sir," was the reply. "The lubbers under hatches are as quiet as mice."

"Very good," continued the Lieutenant. "I may have to cast you adrift. If so, can you manage to set sail on the foremast and steer to the west'ard? We'll wireless for assistance and pick you up."

"Ay, ay, sir," was the imperturbable response.

The possibility of being adrift, single-handed, with a crew of cut-throats in the hold, never troubled the bluejacket in the slightest. He was a firm believer in the creed, "Duty is duty".

The patrol-boat was already cleared for action, but until Osborne was certain of the intentions of the approaching vessel he refrained from casting off the hawser. It was as well to mislead the stranger concerning the speed of No. 0916.

Without warning, the pursuing craft opened fire with a couple of light guns that were hitherto concealed behind hinged plating in the bows. Yet, contrary to all the international rules of war, she still made no attempt to display her colours.

The projectiles flew wide, one ricochetting a hundred yards on the patrol-boat's starboard quarter, the other churning up a column of spray a cable's length ahead; but there was now no doubt as to the unknown vessel's intentions.

With the report of the guns a succession of shrieks emanated from the patrol-boat's forepeak. The spy, Hymettus, almost frantic with terror, was clamouring to be released.

"You're all right, my festive bird," chuckled Osborne as he gave the signal for the hawser to be cast off. "A little of that won't hurt you. I'll warrant you didn't study other people's feelings when you helped the Huns to torpedo our merchant craft."

With her wireless sending out messages for aid, No. 0916, relieved of her tow, shot ahead at full speed. Had Osborne wished, he could have sought safety in flight; but such was not his intention. He meant to keep in touch with the mysterious armed vessel, and, should her shooting prove inferior, engage her at maximum range.

"She's using seven-pounders," declared Webb. "And jolly rotten shooting! Sort of can't-hit-a-haystack-at-ten-yards, eh, what?"

Osborne nodded. All the same, he kept the patrol-boat on a zigzag course in order to avoid running unnecessary risks. A chance shot, scoring a direct hit, would simply pulverize the lightly built hull of the patrol-boat.

"By Jove!" ejaculated Webb. "What are those fellows doing? They've abandoned the pursuit."

The stranger was starboarding her helm. Still firing erratically, she was standing in pursuit of the felucca. The latter, with her enormous fore-yard hoisted half-way (in spite of the assistance of tackles, Smith was unable to raise it another inch), was driving before the steady breeze on a course almost at right angles to that of the patrol-boat. Obviously the armed yacht, or whatever she was, had some important reason for bearing down upon the insignificant felucca.

"Wireless from Scragger and Grunter, sir," reported the operator. "Both destroyers coming up at full speed."

"That's good," remarked Osborne, addressing his chum. "We'll nab her right enough. But," he added, after a brief survey of the situation, "why shouldn't we have a cut in? We'll risk it, by Jove we will!"

Round swung No. 0916, listing to an alarming angle under the abrupt change of helm. Then, steadying, she tore off at full speed straight for her unknown assailant.

Osborne had scored a decided advantage, for, approaching the mysterious craft well on her quarter, his boat was immune from hostile fire. The enemy vessel had quick-firers mounted for'ard only, and could not be brought to bear abaft the beam. Unless she altered helm she was powerless to reply to the hail of small yet highly powerful shells from the patrol-boat.

It was turning the tables with a vengeance. A well-aimed projectile demolished the enemy's bridge and chart-house. Another started a fire for'ard—probably where the ammunition for the fo'c'sle guns was placed on deck, for a series of explosions followed in quick succession. Two shells, getting home 'twixt wind and water, gave the stranger her coup de grâce, for listing heavily to port she at length turned completely over. For a few minutes the whole of her keel was exposed; then, with a muffled roar as the boilers exploded, the hull slid beneath the waves.

In vain No. 0916 searched for survivors. There were none, so swift had been the destruction of the unknown craft. A few lifebuoys were recovered, but these gave no clue as to her identity.

"Destroyers bearing down, sir," reported one of the bluejackets, while Osborne was directing the operation of taking the felucca in tow once more. Pelting along at thirty-three knots, the Scragger and Grunter were quickly upon the scene.

"'What the dickens do you mean by wirelessing us?" enquired the genial Lieutenant-commander of the Scragger with feigned indignation. "You've done the job yourself, and pretty neatly, I should imagine."

"You might have been jolly useful," replied Osborne modestly. "It was just luck, you see."

"Well, what was the vessel? Do you know her name and nationality?"

"There was nothing to show what she was," replied the skipper of No. 0916.

"Then I suppose it will remain a mystery," added the Lieutenant-commander of the Scragger. "There are some queer cusses of craft knocking around in these waters. Well, we'll take your prize in tow, and you'll be able to keep in company, hands down. 'The Phantom Buccaneer; or, Blown to Bits by a Pigmy!' Some sort of a title for a novel, eh?"

CHAPTER XXVI

Reunited

"That's all very well," confided Webb, when the destroyer had taken charge of the captured felucca; "but I fancy we'll find out all about our mystery craft. She seemed mighty keen on recapturing our prize. Having, as she thought, driven us off, she paid us no further attention until we pitched into her. It is just possible that her object was to rescue our friend Georgeos Hymettus."

Upon No. 0916's arrival at Mudros, the skilful and dangerous spy was conveyed ashore under a strong guard. Placed upon his trial he made a full and abject confession of his misdeeds. Totally lacking in honour and esprit de corps, he unhesitatingly denounced his accomplices. As an intermediary between the German Government and the Greek king he had caused immense harm to the Allies, apart from the damage done with his assistance by the U-boats in Mediterranean waters. On his escape from Alexandria, Hymettus had undertaken a secret mission on behalf of the so-called Royalist faction of Greece. This was with the idea of dealing a counter-stroke against the Venezelists, who held most of the islands in the Archipelago. Should he fail to accomplish the principal object, he was to furnish a list of names of Greeks favourably inclined to the Allies. This document was found on him when he was rescued from the sea. For safety's sake he had hidden it in a fold of his skirt, for he was in the old national Greek dress when on board the felucca, and unaccountably he had forgotten to destroy the paper during the period of captivity in the patrol-boat's forepeak.

During the court martial it also transpired that the vessel which had attacked Osborne's command and had attempted the recapture of the felucca was the Pyrgos, a steam yacht belonging to a strong adherent to the Germanized royal family of Greece. It was not with the sole desire of rescuing Hymettus that the daring attempt was made. The spy would have been ruthlessly abandoned by his employers but for the fact that he bore incriminating documents. Hence the mysterious tactics of the Pyrgos that had led to her destruction, and to the failure to regain the written evidence of Tino's treachery.

The confession of Georgeos Hymettus did not save his miserable life. Condemned to be shot, the sentence was confirmed and duly carried out—not with the idea of vengeance, but as a deterrent to other cosmopolitan rogues who infest the shores of the Levant.

Two days later, Osborne and Webb were making their way from their temporary shore quarters to the harbour, where they suddenly ran up against Captain M'Bride.

"Well met, Osborne!" exclaimed the genial skipper. "We only arrived last night, and I was on my way to look you up. About that dog of yours. No, don't get excited. What a fellow you are! I have a letter from my chum on the Tarbox, but nothin' doin'. I hear you've been given a command. Well, hearty congratulations!"

"Yes, a patrol-boat," replied the Lieutenant. "She's quite a decent little craft." He was too bashful to refer to his achievement. "We're laid up for repairs. Strained the connecting-rods while we were towing some old hooker. But about Laddie, sir?"

M'Bride gripped Osborne's arm and turned him in the direction of the harbour.

"Come along," he said. "Let's see what we can do by making enquiries of the destroyer flotilla. They've only just arrived from Salonika. And you too, Mr. Webb. I believe you are almost as keen about the animal as Osborne."

Under the lee of the stranded hull of an immense dummy battleship, that was finishing a life of strenuous activity in the utilitarian yet humble capacity of a breakwater, lay seven long, lean destroyers. They had just completed a stretch of duty off the Grecian coast, and, relieved by their "opposite numbers", were about to re-bunker, replenish stores and provisions, and give their crews a well-earned spell of rest.

Alongside the little stone jetty lay Captain M'Bride's gig. Into this the three officers stepped. The men "gave way", and the boat sped towards the nearmost destroyer.

"If that's not your dog it's his double, Osborne," remarked Captain M'Bride, pointing to a large animal that was sedately pacing the diminutive quarter-deck of the destroyer, at the heels of a couple of officers.

"Laddie!" shouted Osborne, oblivious of the fact that he was a subordinate officer in the presence of his former skipper.

"Hold on!" protested Captain M'Bride laughingly. "Do wait till we get alongside. He'll be overboard if we don't."

The warning came too late. Osborne had made no mistake in recognizing his long-lost pet, although he had erred in calling to him.

In a trice Laddie cleared the rail, plunged into the water, and swam vigorously towards the gig.

Steering wide of the swimming animal, Captain M'Bride brought the boat alongside the destroyer, and, literally racing up her short accommodation-ladder, gained the shelter of the quarter-deck.

"Now haul the brute into the boat," he exclaimed. "If he soaks you to the skin, that's your funeral, Osborne, not mine."

The possibility of being drenched never deterred Osborne. Grasping the dog by the scruff of the neck, he hove him over the side into the gig; and the next moment the interested onlookers could hardly distinguish the Lieutenant from the dog, so violently excited were both.

"Your dog, I presume?" explained the destroyer's Lieutenant-commander. "Well, take the brute; he's been a regular nuisance to us for the last two months. Of course, I only say this because I don't mean it, Mr. Osborne. If it were of any use I'd offer you a tenner on the spot."

It was quite evident from Laddie's appearance that he had been well cared for. His coat, in spite of the wetting, was in excellent condition. He had, in fact, been "adopted" by the ship's company, and, although their regret at his departure was undoubted, officers and men realized that Osborne had the higher claim.

"He was discovered trapped in a coal bunker of the captured torpedo-boat," explained the Lieutenant-commander. "Goodness only knows what he was doing there! We thought he was a Turkish dog, so we didn't trouble to report the circumstance. We just adopted him. It was only this morning that Captain M'Bride happened to mention the matter; and, when we told him, he was off on shore like a young hurricane."

"I'm awfully grateful," began Osborne.

"Yes, yes, and we are very, very modest. We don't like being overwhelmed with thanks, my dear fellow. Well, s'long! If you have a chance, bring Laddie on board while we're here. By the by, we called him Mustapha, and we rather wondered why he didn't cotton to it."

"Shows your rotten ignorance, Sefton," said Captain M'Bride in mock reproof. "A fellow who tries to give a Turkish name to a respectable, thoroughbred English sheep-dog deserves to be cashiered. Come along, Osborne; you hardly look dignified in those saturated togs."

"Come and have lunch with us, sir," said Osborne as the gig returned to the quay. "We've fairly snug shore quarters, and I think there's something going."

Captain M'Bride consented, and the three officers set off towards the low, rambling stone building in which Osborne and Webb had taken up their temporary abode.

Their way lay along a narrow and somewhat crowded street of the native quarter. In places the three officers had to make their way in single file, Captain M'Bride leading, Webb coming next, and Osborne bringing up the rear, with Laddie sticking closely to his heels.

Suddenly Webb was jostled violently, his head coming in contact with his former skipper's back. Turning, he found Osborne still staggering from the effect of a blow, while Laddie was at the throat of a ruffianly Greek whose outstretched hand was grasping a glittering knife.

CHAPTER XXVII

A Daring Operation

It all happened in such a brief space, and so unexpectedly, that Captain M'Bride and Webb had but a hazy notion of what had taken place.

A crowd had gathered quickly, but by the time Laddie was pulled off the prostrate Greek the would-be assassin was dead.

"Narrow squeak, by Jove!" remarked Captain M'Bride. "The beggar tried to knife you, Osborne. Hallo, what's happened to the dog?"

"What's happened to the dog?" repeated Osborne in a voice that hardly sounded like his own. "Laddie, boy, what has the brute done to you?"

"He's broken his jaw," declared Webb.

"Yes, a double fracture," added a young officer in the uniform of the Veterinary Corps. "You ought to have him shot, sir, and put him out of his misery."

Poor Laddie seemed the least concerned of any of the group. His jaw had dropped, and he presented a rather pathetic figure, with his wide-open eyes fixed upon his master.

Osborne leant heavily upon his chum's shoulder. "Tom," he whispered. "Don't have him shot if it can be possibly avoided. I—I——"

Then, with a stifled groan, he collapsed insensible at the feet of the astonished and horrified Sub-lieutenant.

A stretcher was quickly upon the scene, and, attended by a couple of surgeons, Osborne was removed to the Naval Sick Quarters. Examination revealed the presence of a deep knife-thrust that had narrowly missed the left lung.

"It's a case of revenge, without doubt," declared the senior medical officer to Captain M'Bride. "Mr. Osborne was the principal witness against the spy Hymettus, and one of the Greek's relatives or associates has tried the vendetta touch. Dangerous? Yes; it's no use mincing matters. Even if complications do not ensue—and these Greeks are not at all particular as to the antiseptic condition of their knives—Osborne will have a hard struggle for his life. One thing his appearance tells me: that he is a clean-living fellow, and that's greatly in his favour. By all means look in this evening, and I'll tell you how he is progressing."

Throughout the rest of the day Osborne lay unconscious. Towards night he began to speak, wildly and disjointedly. The nurse on duty noticed that in the midst of his incoherence he seemed to be imploring someone to save Laddie from being shot.

"That's his pet dog," said the principal medical officer when the sister reported the circumstance. "I've heard all about it from Captain M'Bride. He seemed devotedly attached to the animal, and, I believe, if the dog has to be destroyed, it seems likely that Mr. Osborne's chances will be greatly diminished. It's certainly remarkable, but the fact remains. If, when he recovers consciousness, he can be convinced that the dog is alive, half the battle will be won."

That night the Lieutenant was in the throes of fever, battling, although unconscious, with the grim Angel of Death.

* * * * * *

Sub-lieutenant Webb sat in the verandah of his quarters, nervously handling his heavy Service revolver. Not once, but many times, he had borne himself manfully in tight corners. He had been cheek by jowl with death without flinching. But now he was confronted with a problem that taxed his resolution almost to the uttermost.

With Osborne's words ringing in his ears he sat and fumbled irresolutely with the loaded weapon. Such a lot depended upon the next few moments, when a veterinary officer would arrive and give his verdict upon Laddie. If the dog's case were considered hopeless, Webb would be the executioner of his chum's pet. Osborne, he knew, would wish it. And yet, if anything could be done——

A shadow fell athwart the verandah.

Webb looked up enquiringly. A young fellow in military uniform stood without.

"Hallo!" remarked the stranger with a slight drawl. "I say, put that pistol away, you won't need it. You don't seem to remember me?"

"I can't," replied Webb.

"I was in that little affair when your chum was stabbed," continued the army officer. "It was I who suggested the dog should be shot—but I've changed my opinion. You and I, Mr. Webb, are going to save that animal—and we start at once."

"You think he's a chance?" enquired Tom hopefully.

"It's a pure experiment on my part," continued the veterinary officer. "I have hopes that it will succeed. It depends largely upon the dog. Compound fracture of an animal's jaw is considered 'na poo'. You see it takes eighteen days for the bones to set, and in that time the brute's starved to death. How long are you here?"

"About a month, I expect, Mr.——?"

"Dixon, my name. A month? Plenty of time on your hands? Good. Same here. We're having quite a slack after a most unholy rush. Hope it'll last. If not, you'll have to continue the treatment single-handed."

"I say, it's awfully good of you," began Webb.

"Not at all," expostulated Dixon. "I saw how concerned Osborne was. A fellow who can conceal his own injuries in his anxiety for his pet is a pal worth having. He's some grit, has Osborne. Where's the dog?"

"In there," replied the Sub, indicating his private room.

The two men entered. Laddie was lying on a folded blanket, with his injured jaw supported by his paw.

"He does not seem in much pain," remarked Webb.

"No, it's too early. The nervous system of a dumb animal is somewhat different to ours. When mortification sets in—but we mustn't give that a chance," said Dixon. "I've had a dental training, you know, and that's why I think I'll be able to fix it up all right. The first job is to take an impression. Steady his head, will you?"

Gently but firmly Dixon pressed a lump of soft wax against the inside of Laddie's jaw. The dog submitted without protest. Instinctively he realized that what was being done was for his good.

"Ripping fine impression!" declared the operator, regarding the wax model with professional satisfaction. "That'll do for the present. I'll nip off to the work-room and make a plate."

Before long, Dixon returned with a vulcanite plate that exactly fitted the inside of the patient's jaw. Then the under side of the dog's mouth was encased in plaster of Paris, the whole being secured with india-rubber straps.

"That'll do," remarked the veterinary officer. "Feed him with beef-tea and arrowroot. I'll be round early to-morrow."

The grave report concerning Osborne which reached Webb that night urged the Sub to even greater efforts. He would willingly give up his rest in order to save Laddie, knowing that Osborne's life depended largely upon the success of the daring experiment.

Next morning Dixon looked grave. "H'm!" he remarked. "That plate's cracked. Part of the dog's jaw has dropped an eighth of an inch."

"Is it a failure?" asked Webb anxiously.

"Never say die till you're dead," said the other. "Failure? Not if I know it. I'll make something that won't crack."

He was as good as his word, for within an hour he was back with a second plate, made, this time, out of hard dental alloy.

Once more Laddie's jaw was set, and from that time things went well. Other vets., hearing of the weird operation, came to visit the canine patient, and all expressed their opinion that Dixon would win through with his case.

Unremittingly Webb attended to his part of the contract, keeping Laddie well supplied with nourishing liquids. One morning—it was the seventh day of Osborne's illness—Captain M'Bride came to Webb's quarters.

"I've just seen the principal medical officer," he announced, hardly able to conceal the state of his mind. "Osborne recovered consciousness at four this morning. His first enquiry was whether Laddie were alive; and, of course, he could be truthfully informed that he was, and that the animal was well on the road to recovery. Osborne is, I believe, now out of danger. We'll be able to see him in another ten days, I hope, and bring Laddie restored to health as tangible evidence. And, by the by, here's something of a personal nature that will interest you—a copy of a part of to-day's Orders."

"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Webb, the wind completely shaken out of his sails. "What's that for?"

"Bravery and discretion under circumstances of great peril," replied Captain M'Bride. "You've won it fairly, Webb. I congratulate you."

For Webb, Sub-lieutenant no longer, had been specially promoted to Lieutenant and awarded the D.S.O. for services in connection with the rescue of the crew of the mined Portchester Castle.

"And Osborne—and Haynes?" asked Webb. "They did quite as much as I."

Captain M'Bride shrugged his shoulders.

"I cannot offer any opinion," he replied. "All I know is that they were mentioned in my dispatch. Perhaps recognition in their case will come later."

On the seventeenth day following Laddie's operation, the plate and the plaster of Paris were removed. To everyone's satisfaction the operation was perfectly successful.

"Good old boy!" exclaimed Webb. "Now we'll take you to your master."

Osborne was reported to be fit to receive visitors that afternoon. A regular crowd of officers expressed their intention of paying congratulatory calls, but at the suggestion of the surgeon the number was limited to three—Captain M'Bride, and the two men who had been chiefly instrumental in Laddie's recovery, Webb and Dixon.

"I think, in view of previous experience, it would be as well to walk in the centre of the street," said Captain M'Bride, as the trio made their way along the lane where Osborne had been treacherously struck down.

"Rather, sir!" agreed Webb; then—"Oh, dash it all! Now what's going to happen?"

For a large native cur, emerging from a squalid hovel, had suddenly hurled himself upon the unsuspecting Laddie, and in an instant both dogs were engaged in a terrific combat.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Osborne's Reward

The three officers stood aghast. They could do little or nothing to separate the struggling, heaving forms of the canine combatants. In ordinary circumstances Laddie would have been more than a match for the mongrel, but with a recently healed injury the sheep-dog was considerably handicapped.

"He'll break that jaw again!" exclaimed Dixon, alarmed at the prospect of three weeks' work being thrown away.

Webb said not a word. Anxiously he watched the struggle, his thoughts dwelling upon the effect the impending calamity would have on his wounded chum. Captain M'Bride at length made an effort to separate the antagonists, but wisely desisted.

In less than a minute the fight was over and Laddie was the victor. The mongrel, making for the most vulnerable part of his opponent—for the thick under-coat of the sheep-dog forms an almost complete protection—had seized him by the ear. With a quick wrench Laddie shook himself clear, and gripped the cur by the neck. Then, like a terrier shaking a rat, the sheep-dog banged his foe's head thrice upon the hard ground. The aggressor had had more than enough.

Anxiously Dixon knelt down, and examined the jaw of the dust-smothered and foam-flecked Laddie. Then he gave a whoop of satisfaction.

"Sound as a bell!" he exclaimed. "My word! Some successful operation that—eh, what?"

"We must give the brute a drink of water and a good brush down," said Captain M'Bride. "By Jove! he's a tough customer. We can't take him in that horrible state to see his master."

Adjournment for Laddie's refreshment and toilet followed. This done, the "deputation", as Captain M'Bride insisted upon calling it, proceeded on its delayed visit.

It had been the captain's intention to keep Laddie in the background until Osborne had been given an opportunity of greeting his chum, and had been introduced to the army officer who had been instrumental in saving the dog's life. It was M'Bride's idea of "breaking news gently". But Laddie, not having been consulted in the matter, thought fit to do otherwise.

His instinct told him that his master was in the buildings. With a run he bounded into Osborne's room, and in an ecstasy of delight rubbed his head against the Lieutenant's hand.

"I don't know how to thank you enough," said Osborne, when Dixon had been introduced and his part in the saving of Laddie's life related.

"No need," replied Dixon protestingly. "Quite an interesting operation. Mere professional motives. Difficult case—rather out of the ordinary, don't you know—so I tackled it, and it came off all right."

"He's too modest, Osborne," declared Webb. "Some day, when he's not here, I'll tell you what he did and the trouble he took."

"If you do," said Dixon with mock severity, "I'll let Osborne know what you were doing when first I called at your quarters."

"Hallo, what's this?" enquired the wounded Lieutenant, noticing the additional gold ring on the sleeve of Webb's uniform. "Congrats., Tom; the heartiest!"

"And he has the D.S.O.," added Captain M'Bride.

"Goodness only knows what for!" said Webb. "I did no more than the rest of us, and yet—— You ought to have had the distinction, old man."

Osborne smiled.

"It's reward for having done your duty, old chap," he said. "I, too, have mine—I have Laddie back again."

"Can you stand the receipt of serious news, Osborne?" asked Captain M'Bride gravely.

Webb and Dixon looked at the skipper with ill-disguised astonishment. The idea of breaking bad news to a sick man seemed, to say the least of it, rather out of place.

"I'm afraid that, when this war's over," continued Captain M'Bride, "you'll never go back to the old British and Pacific Company."

"Has the company smashed?" asked Osborne with evident concern.

"Smashed? Not it," replied the skipper. "Who ever heard of a shipping concern going smash in these days of high freightage? No, Osborne, it's not that. In recognition of your services the Admiralty have transferred you from the R.N.R. to the Royal Navy—a signal honour."

"And that means," added Osborne, "that not for the period of the war only, but after, I'll still be under the White Ensign."

"Ay," exclaimed Webb. "Under the White Ensign—you lucky bounder!"

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Table of Contents

- Under the White Ensign

- Under the White Ensign

- A Naval Story of the Great War

- PERCY F. WESTERMAN

- BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY

- Contents

- UNDER THE WHITE ENSIGN

- CHAPTER I

- Laddie's Warning

- CHAPTER II

- Held Up by a U-Boat

- CHAPTER III

- The Bomb in the Hold

- CHAPTER IV

- A Night on the Neutral Ground

- CHAPTER V

- The Encounter with a Spy

- CHAPTER VI

- The Dummy Periscope

- CHAPTER VII

- Rammed

- CHAPTER VIII

- "In the Ditch"

- CHAPTER IX

- A Midnight Expedition

- CHAPTER X

- How the Landing Party Fared

- CHAPTER XI

- Osborne's Capture

- CHAPTER XII

- The Turkish Biplane

- CHAPTER XIII

- The "Sunderbund's" Life-boat

- CHAPTER XIV

- Submarined

- CHAPTER XV

- Castaways on a Hostile Shore

- CHAPTER XVI

- 'Twixt U-Boat and Arabs

- CHAPTER XVII

- The Whaler's Voyage

- CHAPTER XVIII

- In the Nick of Time

- CHAPTER XIX

- Misunderstandings

- CHAPTER XX

- The Desert Wireless Station

- CHAPTER XXI

- "A Proper Lash Up"

- CHAPTER XXII

- The Fouled Propellers

- CHAPTER XXIII

- Driven to Destruction

- CHAPTER XXIV

- The Chase of the Felucca

- CHAPTER XXV

- An Unknown Antagonist

- CHAPTER XXVI

- Reunited

- CHAPTER XXVII

- A Daring Operation

- CHAPTER XXVIII

- Osborne's Reward

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE