"There's a real submarine knocking about, I'll swear," said the skipper. "Put a shot into those barrels, Morgan."

One shell was sufficient. Little more than a hundred chips floating on the surface was left of the decoy.

The Capella was about to resume her course when a warning cry was heard:

"Torpedo coming, sir!"

From a point bearing half a mile on the vessel's port quarter, the track of the on-coming torpedo was clearly discernible. The Capella, being without way, would undoubtedly have fallen a victim had it not been for her light draught, for before she could forge ahead the missile passed under her keel. Its track could be followed as far as the eye could reach, which showed that it was a modern weapon propelled with superheated air and having a range of about five miles.

Straight for the source of the missile, tore the British craft, but her effort to grapple with the unterseeboot was in vain. The submarine had dived immediately. No sounds betrayed her presence in the vicinity. Had the U-boat been moving, the churning of her propellers would have been distinctly audible.

"She's got away, worse luck," growled Sub-lieutenant Fox. "I wonder how she did it? It's too deep for her to sound, and she can't be moving under her own power."

"We'll have her right enough," rejoined Barry, the optimist. "A light haze and a calm sea is what we want. We'll run her down in less than a week, you mark my words."

Four days passed. The Capella kept her station almost without incident. Ship after ship, deeply laden with troops and munitions, entered the sand-banked estuary of the Seine, having been escorted thus far by destroyers. Ship after ship, more lightly burdened, left the river, homeward bound. Amongst them were hospital ships, clearly distinguishable by their broad green bands and conspicuous red crosses on both bows and quarters. A big action had taken place "somewhere in France", and the passing of the Red Cross vessels was the aftermath of a dearly-bought victory.

Yet nothing occurred to threaten the constant stream of shipping. It seemed reasonable to surmise that either the U-boat had met with an accident or else that she had transferred her energies to another area.

Meanwhile Ross and Vernon had been working hard, improving their seamanship. Under the instruction of the two sub-lieutenants they were making rapid progress in navigation; they could fix their position by the use of a sextant, were able to use the semaphore, and, generally, competent to carry out the duties required as midshipmen of the watch.

Captain Syllenger had long before overcome his prejudices against the sons of Flag Officers—at least in their case—and even expressed his willingness to grant them each a certificate of proficiency, should they wish to transfer to one of the cruisers of the Royal Navy.

At length the Capella received orders for recall to her station off Beachy Head. She was to put into Havre to revictual that day, leaving at 9 a.m. on the morrow.

The lads were heartily glad when the Capella left the malodorous bassin a flotte. The irksomeness of lying in the harbour at Le Havre palled upon them, even after a few hours. They yearned for the open sea almost from the time their ship made fast alongside the grimy quay.

Forty minutes after leaving French waters, the Capella sighted a large cargo-boat steaming northwards. She was high in ballast and rolling like a barrel. On bringing glasses to bear upon her, the Capella's officers found that she was the Orontabella, one of the vessels chartered by the British Government and fitted as a horse-transport ship. She was doing 16 knots to the Capella's 34, and when first sighted was nearly five miles off.

Suddenly a low rumble was heard by the crew of the patrol-vessel. Telescopes and binoculars that had just been laid aside were again brought into action, and it was seen that the transport was sinking rapidly by the stern. She had been torpedoed under the starboard quarter. The terrific impact of the explosion had torn a large hole, besides shattering the rudder and one of the propellers, while all her boats in davits were rendered useless by the concussion.

It was a matter of but a few moments before she made her final plunge. Already signals were fluttering from her stumpy masts—the well-known N.C. (in distress; want immediate assistance) and A.R. (boats are stove in).

Captain Syllenger gave a quick glance astern. There were other vessels, but low down on the horizon. To expect succour from them was for the present out of the question. He had a double task: to attempt to destroy the aggressor, and to rescue the transport's crew.

"Prepare to lower boats!" he shouted. "A midshipman and a couple of hands in each. Guns' crews stand by!"

Clang, chang, went the engine-room telegraph. Like a greyhound, the Capella increased her speed, until she was within a quarter of a mile of the foundering vessel. Then reversing engines, she almost lost way at less than a cable's length from the transport.

By this time Ross and Vernon were in their respective boats. Before way was off the ship the falls were paid out and the disengaging gear cast off.

"Give way, men," ordered Ross.

His scanty crew, for more men could not well be spared, "gave way" with a will, gaining a couple of lengths before his chum was able to push off.

With hardly a pause the Capella dashed off, quickly increasing her pace to full speed ahead, in her quest for the U-boat that had launched the deadly torpedo.

The Orontabella's stern was now under water. She had a pronounced list to starboard. Dense volumes of smoke and steam, pouring from her funnels and hatchways, showed that the water had already invaded her boiler-room. Above the hiss of the scalding vapour and the rush of escaping air, could be heard the terrified neighing of a dozen or more wounded horses, for whom no escape was possible.

Clustering on the fo'c'sle were about twenty or thirty men, the officers and crew who had survived the explosion; for the death-roll, especially in the engine-room and stokehold, was very high, men being overwhelmed by the inrush of water before they could scramble up the steep ladder and through the narrow hatchway.

The waiting men showed no signs of panic. Those who could swim had not troubled to don their cork life-belts, but were calmly engaged in lashing their life-saving devices round the shoulders of their less fortunate comrades.



Ross ordered his men to back towards the foundering vessel. He realized that at any moment the transport might plunge suddenly, and the danger of being dragged down by the suction was a thing he had to avoid. There was also a risk of the boat being swamped by the men as they clambered on board.

"Jump!" he shouted. "Not too many at a time."

Three men accepted the invitation: two good swimmers and a non-swimmer. The former, grasping their struggling companion by the shoulders, struck out without much difficulty and reached Ross's boat, where they were quickly hauled into safety.

Setting the rescued men to take an oar each, for there were several to spare lying on the thwarts, Ross took the whaler closer in, since he had now more means of propulsion at his command.

Four more followed, and were picked up by Vernon's men. Meanwhile the bows of the Orontabella were rising high out of the water, as the stern sank correspondingly deeper, until those of the officers and crew who still remained on board had to cling desperately to the rails to prevent themselves slipping into the maelstrom that surged over the submerged part of the sinking ship.

Suddenly the vessel dived. Where a few seconds previously a towering mass of black and red plating rose high above the boats, there hung a cloud of smoke, steam, and spray, while all around the water was thrashed white with foam.

"Give way, men!" shouted Ross.

The rowers were too late. Before the boat could pull clear of the scene of disaster, a vicious, crested wave, so hollow that the lean quarters of the whaler were unable to rise to it, poured into the frail craft.

The next instant Ross and his crew were struggling in the confusion of the broiling sea.

Vernon, although farther from the spot, narrowly escaped the fate of his chum. It was surprising what a terrific commotion the Orontabella caused at the last. For some minutes he could see nothing beyond the tips of the blades of the oars. Everything else was enveloped in smoke, steam, and spray.

Gradually the waves subsided and the wind dispersed the pall of vapour. The sea was dotted with the heads of swimmers. Ross's boat, with her stem and stern-posts just visible above the surface, was waterlogged, yet retained sufficient buoyancy to support half a dozen men.

Here, indeed, was a pretty pickle. At the very most, Vernon's boat would hold fifteen or sixteen men. The Capella was almost out of sight. The whole attention of her officers and crew would be centred upon the U-boat. So long as there was any indication of the latter's whereabouts, the patrol-vessel would cling tenaciously to her quest.

There was very little left floating from the sunken ship. A few gratings, handspikes, a couple of breakers, and fragments of the shattered boats, but nothing substantial enough to support a man above water; and in mid-Channel, although it was only September, the sea was too cold to enable the swimmers to keep afloat very long without almost certain danger of cramp.

Vernon looked around for his chum. He saw him sharing an oar with one of the crew.

"Come on, my lads!" shouted Ross encouragingly. "We'll hike her up. Half a dozen of you who have life-belts come round this side, and when I say 'All together!' lift for all you're worth."

The men obeyed as quickly as they could in the circumstances. Finding that they could easily keep afloat, the non-swimmers had regained their confidence. Piloted by those who could swim, the men ranged themselves along one gunwale of the waterlogged whaler.

"All ready?" asked Ross, whose knowledge of how to empty a waterlogged Canadian canoe prompted him to try a large, heavy boat. "Together!"

Up rose the boat's gunwale as high as the men's arms could reach, but with a dull swish the whaler resumed its former position. In lifting one side the other had dropped deeply beneath the surface, and the attempt to shake out the water had ended in failure.

"Now then," ordered Vernon, taking his turn to direct operations. "All swimmers get overboard for a few minutes. Those with life-belts get on board, and take off your belts."

In five minutes a dozen cork life-belts were available. Manoeuvring his boat alongside the waterlogged whaler, Vernon gave directions for the belts to be lashed underneath the thwarts, so that they were completely submerged. Then taking the whaler's painter he hove taut until, added to the lifting powers of the cork and the upward strain on the ropes, the gunwale rose a good three inches above the water.

This done, one of the Capella's men, armed with a baler, began throwing out the water from the whaler. In another five minutes the boat showed sufficient buoyancy to allow two more hands to clamber on board. They, too, baled vigorously, with the result that once more the whaler was free from water.

Between the two boats, all the survivors of the Orontabella were easily accommodated; but when at length the midshipmen looked for the Capella, the patrol-boat was nowhere to be seen.



CHAPTER XXI

Adrift in the Channel

"She'll be back for us soon," declared Vernon optimistically, addressing his chum, for the two boats were within twenty feet of each other. "Can you see any signs of her now?"

Ross stood upright in the stern-sheets and, shading his eyes with his hand, gave a careful look in the direction where the Capella was supposed to be.

"No," he answered. "And I cannot see any signs of the other vessels we saw some time ago. We'd better let the men rest on their oars."

Unknown to the two midshipmen, they had for the last hour and a half been in the grip of the strong west-going tide that surges along the French coast. In that interval they had been carried out of the course of the vessels they had sighted, and were some four or six miles from the spot where the Orontabella had sunk.

Another hour passed. The men who had been in the water took the opportunity of drying their clothing in the hot sunshine. They treated their misfortune lightly, making very little reference to the loss of their vessel. One would have thought that being torpedoed was almost an everyday occurrence.

As the minutes slipped by, it began to occur to Ross and his chum that the Capella had missed them entirely. In another few hours night would be coming on, and the prospect of spending ten hours of darkness in a couple of open boats in mid-Channel was not at all alluring.

Each boat was equipped with compass, lead-line, signal-book, lamp, box of biscuits, and beaker of water. None of these articles belonging to Ross's boat had suffered, in spite of their being immersed, except the lamp, for the provisions were in watertight boxes. Masts and sails were not in the boats, having been left on board the Capella when the rescuers put off hurriedly on their errand of mercy.

"What's the best thing to be done, skipper?" asked Ross, addressing the master of the Orontabella.

"Well, sir, since you ask me," was the reply, "I'd shape a course due north. We'd be in the track of craft making up and down Channel before it gets dark. If we don't fall in with any vessel, we can carry on. 'Taint so very far to land, considering the number of hands we've got in the boats."

Quickly the available oars were manned, the men being told off in relays to row for half an hour at a time, while the skipper of the torpedoed boat relieved Ross at the yoke-lines. The mate, who had been picked up by the other boat, was also able to give Vernon a spell.

At six o'clock, a biscuit and a small quantity of water were served out to each man, and preparations were made for the approaching night. Vernon's boat, which possessed the only lantern that would burn, was to take the lead as soon as darkness set in, the light enabling the whaler to keep in touch with her consort.

"Jolly funny where the Capella's got to," remarked Ross to the skipper. "With her speed she could search a couple of hundred square miles by this time."

"'Spose she wasn't torpedoed?" asked the Orontabella's master.

"No jolly fear!" replied the midshipman decidedly. "She's torpedo-proof. We've had plenty of them fired at us, but never the least danger of being hit."

"It's a good thing the sea's calm," continued the skipper. "We're doing a good four knots. Twelve hours at the very most ought to bring us in sight of the Wight, but we've dropped a long way to lee'ard. P'raps it's as well, for it's no joke to be in the thick of the cross-Channel traffic at night, with only a tuppenny dip to light us. Good heavens! What's that?"

Less than fifty yards from the boat a pole-like object, throwing off a double feather of spray, was forging through the water.

"A periscope, sir!" shouted half a dozen voices.

Ross did not require to be told that. With considerable misgivings, he saw the metal shaft rise higher and higher out of the water; then the tip of an ensign-staff, followed almost simultaneously by the snout and conning-tower of a large German submarine. Finally the unterseeboot rose to the surface, revealing her entire length, which was not less than three hundred feet.

She slowed down. The aperture in her conning-tower opened and a couple of officers appeared. From hatchways fore and aft, seamen clad in grey fearnought coats came tumbling on deck, greeting the British with jibes and laughter.

"So you getting on, Englishmen!" exclaimed a leutnant. "Still it is long vay to land, hein? An' where vos der Capella? Suppose I tell you: we her haf sent to der bottom. Goot night, ver' goot night. Our ver' kind regards to Jellicoe."

The U-boat forged ahead, then, getting way, made off at high speed. In a quarter of an hour she was out of sight.

"I suppose those fellows were telling the truth, old man," called out Ross, addressing his chum.

"'Fraid so," replied Vernon. "They had her name pat, so it looks as if the poor old ship's done for. But, I say, what a whopper of a submarine!"

"One of the new type, I should fancy," said the skipper of the Orontabella. "I shouldn't be surprised if she were a mine-layer as well."

Darkness fell upon the scene. The men rowed doggedly, Vernon setting the course by the simple expedient of keeping the Pole Star in line with the boat's stem. It saved the strain of peering into the compass bowl, and in any case the boats were bound to hit the English coast, unless they were swamped or run down.

Throughout the long night the steady progress was maintained. It was horribly cold. Most of the men were lightly clad in imperfectly dried garments. Both Ross and Vernon were glad when the officers of the Orontabella relieved them, since they could take turn at the oars and derive a certain amount of warmth from the exertion.

Day dawned at last, a brilliant pink sky that betokened bad weather before the day was out. Away on the starboard bow could be discerned a grey cliff surmounted by dark hills. It was the Isle of Wight, distant about six miles off.

With the appearance of the sun the wind freshened, and soon developed into a strong breeze dead in their teeth. Spray began to fly over the bows, soon to be followed by green seas, that necessitated constant baling. It was quite evident that every yard of that six miles meant desperate work, with the chances of being swamped before the boat reached land.

The men, weakened by hunger and exposure, stuck gamely to their task, yet after another half an hour's hard pulling the boats seemed no nearer their object. They were barely holding their own against the wind and waves.

"What's to be done now?" asked Ross, consulting the experienced skipper. Although the midshipman was in charge, he was not above asking the advice of a man who had been to sea almost as many years as the lad had been days. "We're hardly making headway, and the sea's beating up fast."

"And the men are almost done up," added the skipper. "It's bound to be worse before it gets better. I would suggest that we ride to a sea-anchor, and trust to luck to be picked up."

The men quickly got to work. A triangle was composed of six oars in pairs lashed together, two of the boat's gratings being secured between the ash spars. To the apex the anchor was made fast, in order to make the sea-anchor float in a vertical position, its weight compensated by the use of the now empty water-beaker as a float.

Secured by three spans of equal length, which in turn were bent to the boat's painter, the sea-anchor was dropped overboard. For some distance the whaler drifted to leeward, until held by the strain of the painter she rode head to wind, and in comparative safety in the wake of the floating breakwater.

Vernon's boat then came close alongside. Her painter was caught and secured, allowing her to ride astern.

The crews were then at liberty to rest, with the knowledge that their drift was little more than half a knot. Yet every two hours they would be drifting a mile farther from shore, unless their plight were observed by passing vessels.

By this time the sea was running high. At one moment the whaler would be tossing high upon the rounded crest of a wave, with the other boat deep in the trough. At the next, nothing was to be seen from the whaler save an incline of green water and a canopy of dark-grey sky. On either side the crests were white with foam, yet, thanks to the sea-anchor, hardly a drop of water was taken in over the boats' gunwales.

The men sat in silence, turning their backs to the keen wind. A few who had tobacco smoked. Those who had not were glad to chew the small quantity given them by their more fortunate comrades. As for Ross and Vernon, they were glad to doze, lying on the damp bottom-boards with their heads pillowed on their arms.

Ross was almost asleep when he was aroused by one of the men announcing that a vessel was in sight. At the prospect of rescue, all hands were alert. The man was right, for, as the whaler rose on the crests of the waves, a dark, grey shape could be discerned through the mirk at a distance of about a couple of miles.

Quickly the shape resolved itself into a large four-funnelled cruiser pelting down-Channel at full speed. Unless she altered her course she would pass within a hundred yards of the boats.

"Lash a shirt to the boat-hook, lads!" ordered Ross.

A few moments of intense anxiety followed. Then a groan of disappointment rose from the men as the cruiser ported helm.

She was then a couple of miles to windward. The smoke from her funnels drifted around the boats, making it impossible for the derelict men to see what she was doing, until the evil-smelling haze dispersed, showing the cruiser less than two cables' length away and bearing down towards them.

From her after bridge a seaman was semaphoring vigorously.

"Will slow down to windward of you," read the message.

"Oars, lads!" ordered Ross.

The bowman of each boat promptly cut the painter. With renewed spirit the rowers bent to their work, and soon the boats were alongside and under the lee of H.M.S. Oxford, armoured cruiser of the County class.

By the aid of bowlines the rescued men were quickly hauled over the side. Without delay the Capella's boats were cut adrift, and the cruiser proceeded on her way.



CHAPTER XXII

An Unexpected Capture

"I can see no possibility of landing you at present," said the officer of the watch, after Ross had reported the events that had led up to the rescue of the two boats. "We're under sealed orders. We have to make for a certain rendezvous at full speed. When we arrive we shall know where we are bound for—until then we are quite in the dark. We'll wireless, however, and let the Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth know that you are safe."

"Have you any news of the Capella?"

"Yes; she was mined while in pursuit of a submarine. It is a dickens of a puzzle to know why, for our sweepers were over there early that morning and never found a single mine. Whatever it was, it was not so powerful as they generally are, for the Capella was able to make for shore and run aground within a few miles of Barfleur. All hands were saved, luckily, but I'm afraid this gale will do for her entirely. It's blowing great guns."

"Then those fellows on the unterseeboot were wrong," remarked Vernon. "They said she had gone down with all hands. We believe that the submarine is a mine-layer, and perhaps it was one of her mines that the old Capella bumped against."

"Let's hope the patrol-vessels will settle her," rejoined the officer of the watch. "But you must be awfully knocked up. I'll introduce you to your new messmates, and they'll give you a shake-down in the steerage flat. The Orontabella's officers can mess with the 'warrants', and the men will be berthed for'ard."

The Lieutenant stepped to the top of the ladder from the navigation bridge. A couple of midshipmen were standing on the superstructure, watching with professional interest the splicing of a six-inch hawser.

"Mr. Sefton!" sang out the officer of the watch.

The midshipman ran up the ladder and saluted.

"Your messmates for the time being," continued the Lieutenant, after he had formally introduced Trefusis and Haye. "They've had a pretty rough time, and they are jolly peckish, I know."

Midshipman Sefton led the two chums below, and piloted them into a very long room on the main deck. It was plainly, nay scantily furnished, and appeared at first sight to be utterly cheerless. Possibly the idea was heightened by the fact that frequently the scuttles were obscured by the seas that slapped viciously against the cruiser's sides.

"This is the gun-room," explained Sefton apologetically. "We've had to clear it out pretty thoroughly, you know. No knick-knacks or pretty-pretties in war time. Sorry the other fellows aren't here. We're four one-stripers, three midshipmen R.N., and five midshipmen R.N.R.—a jolly lively crowd of us, I can assure you."

He touched a bell. A messman appeared.

"Jones," ordered the midshipman, "a good square meal for two, and jolly well look sharp about it."

"You've got to be dead nuts on that chap if you want anything done in a hurry," explained Sefton after the man had cleared off. "It's the only way to check slackness. No doubt he gets his own back by giving us plum-duff without troubling to extract the cockroaches; but we manage to thrive on it. By the by, I'll tell my servant to sling a couple of hammocks for you. There'll be no need to turn out before dinner."

Sefton hastened below to acquaint the marine who, for the sum of ten shillings a month, acted as the budding Nelson's factotum to make the necessary preparations for his new chums. By the time he returned, a substantial lunch had been set before Trefusis and Haye.

"I say, you fellows," remarked the midshipman; "I notice that Eccles—that's the officer of the watch, you know—was greasing his jaw tackle a good bit. Did he mention where we are bound for?"

"Nothing definite," replied Vernon. "He said that the ship was under sealed orders."

"Then it's no use hazarding a guess," decided Sefton. "It might be anywhere from China to Peru. In any case, it's a change from what we've been doing—knocking about in the North Sea, waiting for an appointment which the Germans flatly decline to keep. Four months solid, and I've never seen a gun discharged except at target practice."

During the progress of the meal young Sefton was a little inclined to patronize his guests. Perhaps he did it unconsciously.

"My governor's a post-captain," he observed in the course of conversation. "What's yours?"

"Only an Admiral," replied Ross.

"Is he, by Jove!" exclaimed Sefton. "Then why the deuce are you a 'with but after'?"

"A what?" asked Trefusis, somewhat mystified.

"An R.N.R. man ranks with, but after, an R.N. fellow with equal rank," explained the midshipman. "It's a fact: look it up in the King's Regulations. But, I say, do you play footer? We're in a match. Gun-room versus Ward-room, coming off this week. If you play, I'll get Cranbury—he's president of our mess—to put you in the team."

The meal over, Ross and Vernon were taken to the steerage flat, an electrically lighted space out of which opened the cabin of the junior officers. At the after end of the flat, a marine sentry paced day and night, his post extending from the stern torpedo-tube to the gun-room door on the port side, and to the armoured door on the starboard side. Amongst his varied and multitudinous duties, particularly strict orders were given him not to allow anyone to put their hands on the paintwork—one of the standing orders dating from the prehistoric days before the war, when "spit and polish" were regarded as being absolutely essential to the efficiency of H.M. ships.

At three bells in the second dog-watch, the Oxford having arrived at the rendezvous, the sealed orders were opened. It was then found that, in company with the Guildford and the Launceston, the cruiser had to proceed to Halifax, Nova Scotia, to escort a contingent of Canadian troops to Liverpool.

This was but one of the manifold odd jobs performed by the British Navy in connection with the war—necessary, but without any prospect of excitement. The trip was regarded as a picnic, after weeks of monotonous patrol duty, for when 800 miles west of Ireland there was little likelihood of falling in with any hostile submarine, while other German craft had been swept off the board months previously.

On the third day out the football match came off. Ross and Vernon were included in the gun-room team, and never before had they participated in a rugger match in such strange circumstances. The Oxford was pitching slightly in the long Atlantic swell. The "ground" was the port side of the quarter-deck, nets being rigged up to prevent the ball getting very much in touch with the sea. The fun was fast and furious, the referee being inclined to tolerance; and before half-time half the players were off the field owing to minor injuries, ranging from the smashing of the Assistant Paymaster's eyeglasses to the laying out of the portly Engineer-Commander.

Suddenly the Oxford turned 8 degrees to starboard. The alteration of course resulted in a break in the game. Something out of the usual had occurred for the cruiser, which was the leading vessel in line ahead, to break out of station.

A bugle sharply sounded the "G"—officers' call. For'ard the bosn's mates' pipes were turning up the hands. The Captain, Commander, and officer of the watch were on the fore-bridge looking steadily at a dark cloud of smoke showing beyond the horizon.

It was a ship on fire. The alert officer of the watch had noticed the smoke, which was much too dense to be caused by the vessel's furnaces. On reporting the matter to the captain, the latter immediately ordered the Oxford to be steered in that direction. As senior officer, he gave orders for the other cruisers to stand on that course.

"She's quite a small packet, I should imagine," remarked one of the Subs. "At any rate she's not fitted with wireless."

In half an hour the cruiser was sufficiently near to see clearly the distressed vessel. She was a cargo-boat of about two thousand tons. Amidships, flames were mounting fiercely from her hatches. She had stopped her engines, and was preparing to lower boats. Aft, she flew the Stars and Stripes, upside down as a signal of distress.

The ship was doomed. Fanned by the light breeze, the flames were rapidly spreading. Her cargo undoubtedly consisted of highly inflammable material, since it blazed freely, while the smoke smelt strongly of burnt oil.

The Oxford stopped at four cables' length to windward of the burning ship. She could do nothing beyond rescuing the crew on board. There was no necessity to lower her boats, since the cargo-boat obviously had enough for all hands.

At length the boats of the unfortunate ship were lowered. There was no undue haste. Men deliberately threw their bundles into the arms of their waiting comrades before they swarmed down the falls. The captain was the last to leave, a bulge under his coat betraying the fact that he had taken the ship's papers with him.

"Nothing of an explosive nature in her cargo," said Ross to his chum. "Otherwise they would have sheered off a bit quicker. My word, how she does burn! Isn't it a grand sight?"

"Yes," admitted Vernon. "It's lucky there's help at hand. Knocking about in the boats in mid-Atlantic must be ten times as bad as in the English Channel."

"I beg to differ," remarked one of the Subs who was standing by. "There's not so much shipping, I'll admit, but the waves are longer and more regular in mid-ocean. It's marvellous what an open boat can do when she's put to it, except in very broken water."

The boats were now approaching the Oxford. A monkey-ladder had been lowered to enable the men to surmount the lofty side of the cruiser, while the sailors, always ready to lend a hand in cases of distress, were swarming down to the net-shelves in readiness to receive the personal belongings of the American seamen.

"Look!" whispered Vernon. "Isn't that chap like our old pal Ramblethorne?"

He pointed to a tall, bronzed man clad in canvas jumper and trousers, and wearing a grey slouched hat. He was sitting in the stern-sheets of the second boat, with his shoulders hunched and his face half-averted.

"Like him?" echoed Ross. "By Jove, it's he, right enough!"

Trefusis was right. Von Hauptwald, alias Ramblethorne, had succeeded in evading the hue and cry after his escape on Harley Bank, and had continued to remain hidden in the house of a naturalized German in Cheshire until the search for him had somewhat relaxed.

He then managed to ship as a fireman on board a vessel bound for Montreal, knowing that his chances of getting out of Great Britain would be greater if he made for a Dominion port rather than one in the United States.

At Montreal he promptly deserted, made his way across the border, and thence to New York. Here he picked up with a German-American shipowner, who readily agreed to help him back to Germany.

A cargo-boat, the Tehuantepec Girl, was loading with a cargo consisting of cotton, ready-made clothing, and leather equipment. Nominally her destination was Leith. Her manifest and bill of lading were made out to that effect, but secretly her skipper had instructions to make for Stockholm. If he were overhauled and taken into Lerwick by a British patrol-boat, well and good. The owners must be compensated by the British Government, even if the Tehuantepec Girl was miles out of her course for Leith. On the other hand, if the boat succeeded in reaching the Baltic, she would be conveniently "captured", by previous arrangement, by a German cruiser or destroyer and taken into Kiel.

Unfortunately the fact of keeping secret the real destination of the Tehuantepec Girl led to her undoing. A German dock-hand, who was really in the pay of the Teutonic Government, had placed an infernal machine in the cargo, setting it to explode two days after leaving New York.

In less than a quarter of an hour after the discovery of the outbreak, the fire had taken such a firm hold that all attempts to subdue it were hopeless.

And now von Hauptwald, in the disguise of a Yankee deck-hand, was being rowed towards a craft which he would have given almost anything to avoid—a British cruiser.

Still, he was not dismayed. The chances of detection were absurdly small. None of the Tehuantepec Girl's crew knew his true personality except the captain, and he was to be handsomely rewarded as soon as the spy was safe in German territory. On the other hand, there might be one amongst the 655 forming the complement of the Oxford who might recognize the one-time doctor who had lived at Devonport.

"Let's get out of his way," suggested Vernon. "We'll inform the Commander, and he will order him to be put under arrest."

"I'm not going to budge," declared Ross. "If he sees us, what can he do?"

"I'm not afraid of him," protested Haye.

"Very well, then; let's stop where we are. He's got to know sooner or later."

The first boat had already delivered her human cargo Upon the cruiser's quarter-deck. As each man's name was taken down by the master-at-arms he was sent forward. The first mate remained in conversation with the Commander until the arrival of the Tehuantepec Girl's skipper.

Von Hauptwald was one of the last men to come aboard. As he swung himself over the rail he gave a swift glance at the group of officers. His eye caught that of Ross Trefusis.

For a moment the spy thought that he was mistaken, but a second glimpse confirmed his suspicions.

"Steady on there!" shouted the Commander. "What the deuce are you up to?"

Von Hauptwald had broken into a run across the quarter-deck. With a bound he cleared the stanchion-rails, and plunged head foremost into the sea.

He had realized that to remain on the cruiser meant arrest and ultimate death as a dangerous spy. Better by far to be drowned without further delay than to experience all the horrors of lying under sentence of death.

He had acted spontaneously, yet there was method in his madness. By running across to the other side of the ship there was little chance of the boats being able to pick him up ere he sank for the last time. Not until he rose to the surface did he realize his difficulty. He was a strong swimmer, and the natural instinct to strike out overpowered his determination to sink.

There was a rush of officers and men to the ship's side to see what was taking place. With two exceptions, they thought that the supposed seaman had suddenly lost his reason.

Two seamen, one a brawny specimen, the other a red-haired middle-weight, dived after the would-be suicide. Others were on the point of following when the Commander restrained them.

"Away sea-boat!" was the order.

The Oxford was now forging slowly through the water. During the rescue of the Tehuantepec Girl's people, she had drifted rather too close to the burning ship to be safe, should an explosion occur. Already von Hauptwald was fifty yards astern, with the two seamen swimming towards him with powerful strokes.

His efforts to drown were a failure. He simply couldn't keep his head under. His attempts to swallow quantities of salt water only increased the instinctive motion of the limbs to keep himself afloat. Bitterly he regretted that he had not picked up some heavy metal object during his career across the cruiser's quarterdeck.

The approach of his would-be rescuers made him realize the necessity of self-destruction. At the encouraging shout of "Cheer up, old mate, you're safe!" spluttered by the leading seaman, he dived, pressing his chest with both hands in the hope that he would be able to expel the air from his lungs.

A horny hand gripped him by the arm. He felt himself being drawn to the surface. As his head appeared, he swung round and dealt the seaman a powerful blow with his fist. The man, taken completely by surprise, relaxed his grip. Von Hauptwald's blow had almost broken his shoulder.

"Be careful, Ginger!" he shouted to his mate. "He's fair balmy. Mind he don't plug you."

The second seaman swam in a circle just beyond reach of the spy's arm. His attempt to get behind the German failed, for the simple reason that von Hauptwald gave no opportunity for an attack in the rear. The other sailor, floating on his back and rubbing his injured arm, was content to shout advice and await developments.

The red-haired man was not deficient in courage, but he did not at all relish the idea of tackling single-handed a powerfully built maniac—for such he took the spy to be. He wisely awaited the approach of the Oxford's sea-boat, which, manned by four rowers who were encouraged by Midshipman Setley, was being urged rapidly towards the scene.

"Way enough!" shouted the middy.

The bowman boated his oar and leant over the bows. As he did so von Hauptwald avoided his grip, and, seizing the boat's keel, brought his head in violent contact with the elm planking.

Then it was that Ginger saw his chance and took it. Grabbing the German by the legs, he hung on like grim death, shouting to his comrades to "tackle the lubber".

Within an ace of capsizing the boat, von Hauptwald was hauled on board. He fought desperately. For a moment it seemed as if he would more than hold his own against the four seamen, until one of them, seizing a stretcher, dealt the spy a crack on the head that laid him senseless across the thwarts.

"Couldn't help it, sir," exclaimed the man apologetically.

"You did perfectly right, Dickenson," said the midshipman. "He's properly mad. Come on, you men, are you going to bathe for the rest of the day?"

The victim of von Hauptwald's attack had to be assisted into the boat, which, on making the ship, was quickly hoisted and secured.

Meanwhile the Tehuantepec Girl was on the point of sinking. From stem to stern she was a roaring furnace. Mingled with the roar of the flames could be heard the hiss of water coming in contact with the red-hot plates, while ever and anon came the crash of metal as the deck beams gave way and fell into the hold.

Suddenly she parted amidships. The flames died out, overpowered by the inrush of water. A thick column of smoke and steam arose as the bow and stem [Transcriber's note: stern?] portions floated apart. Then with the roar of escaping air the remains of the Yankee cargo-boat disappeared, to find a resting-place 7000 fathoms deep on the bed of the Atlantic.



CHAPTER XXIII

Mined

"So that accounts for the fellow's behaviour," remarked the Captain of the Oxford, after Ross and Vernon had communicated their discovery to the Commander, who in turn reported the news to the skipper. "The doctor says he is out of danger, eh? From a medical point of view, no doubt. Put him in the cells, Master-at-arms. We'll take good care not to land him at Halifax."

Upon arriving at the Nova Scotian port, whither the Oxford's consorts had preceded her, the officers and crew of the Tehuantepec Girl were landed. Forty-eight hours elapsed before the transports were ready to leave, and thus Ross and Vernon, with most of the officers of the cruisers, had an opportunity of a "spell ashore".

On the homeward run nothing untoward occurred, except that, instead of proceeding to Liverpool, the cruisers and their convoy were suddenly ordered by wireless to make for the Clyde.

Off the Pladda Light the transports were met by a flotilla of destroyers, while the cruisers were ordered to proceed via Cape Wrath to rejoin the fleet at Rosyth. Without slackening speed the three cruisers flung about, and steered a course immediately opposed to the one they had previously been following. Experience had told them that speed was one of the essentials to safety, even when in land-locked waters such as the Firth of Clyde.

"You don't look like leaving us in a hurry," remarked Midshipman Sefton, when he communicated the latest change of plans to Trefusis and his chum.

"We don't mind in the slightest," Ross hastened to assure him. "It's jolly comfortable on board the Oxford."

"Wait until we're ordered straight away for patrol work," said Sefton. "It's more than likely that we may be pushed off to the Norwegian coast without having so much as a sniff at Rosyth. We'll just about hit the equinoctial gales, and in those latitudes they get ice and snow pretty early in the autumn. But, by the by, I heard the doctor tell the Commander that your pal, von Hauptwald, is in a pretty state of funk."

"I shouldn't wonder," replied Ross. "A court-martial will make it pretty hot for him."

"It's hardly that," said Sefton. "The fellow's absolutely crazy with fear. He's been imploring the master-at-arms and the sentry on the cells to ask the skipper to shift him above the water-line. It's only since the ship arrived in home waters, so it seems as if he's in mortal dread of being cooped up below and the Oxford being mined or torpedoed."

"And what did the Captain say?"

"Merely told the M.A.A. to carry on. Since the cells are below the water-line, and the King's Regulations say that prisoners are to be placed in cells, that ends the matter."

Passing through the Little Minch, and continually steering an erratic course in order to baffle any unterseebooten, should they be operating off the West coast of Scotland, the Oxford rounded Cape Wrath.

In spite of a rapidly falling glass the weather still remained fine, although the heavy swell encountered off the coast of Sutherland and Caithness betokened, in conjunction with the barometer, a gale at no distant date.

"This will be you fellows' last night on board," remarked Farnworth, one of the Acting Sub-lieutenants, as Ross and Vernon prepared to turn into their hammocks after a strenuous sing-song in the gun-room mess. "We'll be at Rosyth before noon to-morrow. 'Fraid it's been a bit tame after the Capella. Beyond that affair of the Tehuantepec Girl there hasn't been much doing. The small fry get all the excitement, I'm sorry to say. These armoured cruisers seem to be neither fish, fowl, nor good red herring in these times."

It seemed to Ross that he had been asleep only a few minutes when he was suddenly awakened by a terrific crash, followed by a concussion that shook the cruiser from stem to stern. His hammock rolled so violently that he promptly fell out on the floor of the flat. Before he could rise, the occupant of the next hammock tried his level best to thrust his toes into Trefusis' mouth. The rest of the midshipmen, who were watch below, were either thrown from their hammocks or had leapt hurriedly from them. The electric lights were out. The shock had either shattered the carbon threads or had broken the wires.

"Torpedoed!" exclaimed a junior midshipman.

"Dry up!" ordered Sefton sternly. "On deck all of you; there's the 'Action' bugle—no, it's 'Collision Stations'."

Just then a light appeared. The sentry in the steerage flat had lit one of the bulkhead lamps, which are always in readiness for use in the event of a break-down in the electric current.

The cruiser was listing perceptibly to starboard.

She was in danger of turning turtle and foundering, but even in the face of death not one of the handful of young officers showed the faintest sign of fear. If in their inmost minds the lads were a little timorous, they bravely kept their feelings to themselves. They were part and parcel of a British warship's complement. They had a reputation to maintain—the reputation of a Navy dating back for centuries. It was in safe keeping, for the Oxford's midshipmen were made of the right stuff.

A few made a hasty dive into their sea-chests to make sure of some precious article. Others scrambled into their thick coats, bantering each other as they did so.

Overhead, the noise of hundreds of feet could be heard as the men doubled aft to the quarter-deck. Above the tumult rose the shrill pipes of the bos'n's mates' whistles, and the hoarse shouts of "On deck, every mother's son of you!" bawled by a leather-lunged petty officer.

"We don't want to leave you, but we fear that we must go," parodied one of the midshipmen, giving a farewell glimpse into the gun-room that had been his home for the last fifteen months. "Come on, you fellows, who's going to enter for the long-distance swimming race?"

Up the ladder swept the throng of youthful humanity, followed by the sentry, who had received orders to abandon his post. On the half-deck, the gun-room officers met the swarm of senior officers issuing from their cabins, mostly clad in pyjamas and uniform caps. The Gunnery-lieutenant was afterwards heard to declare solemnly that he had seen the Paymaster issuing from the ship's office with the ledger on his head, while under his left arm he held his cap.

"Let's stick together, old man!" exclaimed Ross as the chums gained the quarter-deck.

The first hurried rush aft had now given place to strict discipline. The men were falling in as calmly as if mustered for divisions. Some were blowing up their pneumatic swimming-collars, others helping to adjust a comrade's life-belt. A few were joking and talking, none of the officers gainsaying them. By virtue of an unwritten law the men were allowed to smoke, and the odour of strong tobacco wafted across the broad quarterdeck.

"Got a fag, Lofty?" Vernon overheard a burly stoker ask his neighbour.

"No; I don't smoke, mate," replied the man.

"You will soon," replied the stoker, and a roar of merriment rose from the lips of the men within hearing. They thought the retort was a smart bit of humour, and, when at length the implied nature of the man's words dawned upon him, even Vernon had to smile.

From the after bridge, search-lights were playing upon the waves. The light quick-firers were manned ready to deal with any visible foe. On the navigation bridge the Captain, with the officer of the watch, was pacing calmly up and down the slightly inclined structure.

Presently he was joined by two dark forms—the Commander and the carpenter. A bugle sounded the "Still". A hush fell upon the swarm of humanity, the silence being broken only by the hiss of escaping steam, and the rush of water under the action of the powerful Downton pumps.

"My lads!" shouted the skipper. "The old ship is holding out. We'll get her into dock yet. Pipe down!"

The Oxford had not been struck by a torpedo. Examination showed that she had bumped against a mine, with the result that the fore compartments were flooded. Fortunately the transverse bulkhead and watertight doors withstood the strain of the terrific inrush of water. Although well down by the bows the cruiser was in no immediate danger.

The watch below disappeared from sight; those of the officers who were not on duty retired to their cabins, yet few of them slept again that night.

As Ross and his chum were about to leave the quarterdeck, the Commander strode by.

"Pass the word for the master-at-arms," he ordered. "Master-at-arms went below, sir, to release the prisoners," reported a petty officer.

"By Jove!" whispered Ross. "I'd clean forgotten Ramblethorne. I wonder how he liked the business?"

"Let's wait," suggested Vernon.

They took up their position on the leeward side of the after 7.5-inch gun-shield. Here they were sheltered from the wind and out of sight of the alert Commander, although they could hear what was being said.

"Master-at-arms is in the sick-bay, sir," reported the messenger as he came up at the double. "He's nearly done for, trying to get to the prisoners. The ship's corporal managed to release the two ordinary seamen, but the spy's done in, sir—I mean he's drownded."

Almost immediately following the explosion, the master-at-arms had hurried to the cells. The flat was in darkness. The sentry on No. 6 post, in charge of the prisoners, was lying stunned on the floor of the passage. Water was surging aft. Already it was up to the knees of the master-at-arms as he plunged through the gloom towards his goal.

The three prisoners were shouting in mad panic. They realized their awful peril. Caged like rats in a trap, they felt certain that the cruiser was foundering, and that they would be carried down in a living tomb until the pressure of water burst open the comparatively strong steel walls of the cell.

At length the chief of the ship's police forced the door of the nearmost cell. By sheer good luck he inserted the key into the lock without having to fumble for the opening. The prisoner, a young seaman who had broken out of the ship at Halifax, was too terrified to know his way to safety. He clutched at the master-at-arms, following him to the next cell.

The water was now waist-deep. In trying to find the keyhole the master-at-arms dropped the keys. It took some minutes to find them—a loss of valuable time.

The noise of the inrushing water was deafening. For all the petty officer knew, the ship might be about to make her last plunge. Yet his duty lay before him. At the risk of his life the prisoners must be set free.

A light appeared upon the scene. A ship's corporal, bearing a lantern, descended to the flat with the laudable intention, of assisting his superior.

The door of the second cell flew open, but a rush of water on the flood, under the movement of the stricken vessel surged and swept the master-at-arms off his feet. His forehead came in violent contact with the steel frame of the door, and, rendered senseless, he dropped inertly upon the flooded floor of the passage.

"Pull yourselves together, men!" exclaimed the corporal to the two prisoners. "You're all right. Bear a hand here."

Together they carried the unconscious master-at-arms out of the flat. The corporal returned to liberate the occupier of the third cell—von Hauptwald. But once again the keys were missing, having slipped from the insensible man's hand.

The water in the confined space was now shoulder-deep. The corporal could hear the stout bulkhead groaning under the pressure. Fixing the lantern on a bracket he dived, groping with both hands for the keys. At length he found them, and threw open the door of the cell.

"Out you come!" he shouted.

There was no reply. Von Hauptwald had ceased to shout for some minutes. The silence was ominous.

A movement of the badly stricken ship sent the water well over the corporal's head. He was swept off his feet. It was time for him to get back to safety. He had done all he could. The spy was dead.



CHAPTER XXIV

"Shrap"

It was late in the afternoon when the Oxford arrived, under her own steam, at Rosyth. Although the dry docks were in use, accommodation was quickly found for the damaged cruiser by the simple expedient of floating out a battleship that was being cleaned and recoated with anti-fouling composition. Since speed is an absolute necessity for efficiency in war-time, it was the practice to dock all the ships of the battle-cruiser and armoured cruiser class in rotation, the margin of safety being sufficient to allow this to be done without impairing the strength of the squadrons.

By the aid of powerful arc-lamps the dockyard hands took the crippled Oxford into dock, and, the caisson having been replaced, the water was quickly pumped out. The damage done was found, on examination, to be limited to a space extending 30 feet from the bows. The actual aperture caused by the explosion measured 6 feet by 30 inches, but the adjacent plates had been buckled and the bolts "started" under the violent concussion. Well it was that the armoured bulkhead had withstood the strain, otherwise nothing could have saved the ship.

There was no delay in setting to work. Almost before the last of the water had been pumped out of the dock, stagings were built up round the bows, and scores of shipwrights set to work to rebuild the damaged portion of the hull. Under normal conditions the work would have taken a couple of months, but, by working day and night, the efficient dockyard staff hoped to effect repairs within nine days.

Since the commencement of the greatest war the world has ever yet seen, it was the custom to allow the officers and crews of torpedoed or mined ships—if they were fortunate enough to be numbered amongst the survivors—seven days' leave. A rest on shore was necessary for the crews to recover from the mental shock, for it was found that although the men might escape from physical injury and appear bright and cheerful immediately after the occurrence, the reaction was most marked at about forty-eight hours afterwards.

Ross and Vernon, although not borne in the books of the Oxford, received permission to go on leave. Since Haye's father was somewhere in the North Sea, and he had no near relatives, he gladly accepted Ross's offer to sample again the hospitality of Killigwent Hall.

It was late when their train arrived at King's Cross; so much so that the lads realized it would be useless to attempt to catch the Cornwall express that would land them at St. Bedal just before midnight.

"I vote we have an evening in town," suggested Vernon. "Let's go to a theatre. It seems ages since I was inside a music hall, or even a picture palace."

"All right," agreed Ross. "We'll have a jolly good square meal before we go. I know of a decent little hotel just off the Strand."

The two midshipmen took the Underground as far as Charing Cross. As they emerged from the station they renewed their acquaintance with the metropolis in war-time. The streets were plunged in almost Stygian darkness. Omnibuses and taxicabs crawled painfully through the gloom; pedestrians were cannoning into each other at every step. The only relief to the blackness were the two search-lights from the Admiralty Arch that swung like gigantic pendulums across the dark and misty sky.

"Let's get out of it," exclaimed Ross, as he just managed to save himself from being run down by a motor-car. "It's a jolly sight more dangerous than keeping the middle watch on the old Capella."

Five minutes later they were sitting down to an ample dinner, provided at a cost that proved pretty conclusively the futility of the German submarine blockade. In the well-lighted room there was little to suggest that business was not proceeding "as usual", except perhaps the predominance of khaki-clad officers.

A string band was discoursing the latest operatic music, the diners were laughing and chattering. Within, the gaiety and light-heartedness contrasted violently with the dismal gloom inflicted upon the metropolis as a result of precautions adopted by the triple authorities responsible for its defence against air-craft.

Presently the band finished one item on the programme. The comparative silence that followed was almost immediately interrupted by a series of sharp reports, punctuated by a deeper crash.

"Zepps!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

Instantly there was a rush—not for the deep cellars underneath the building, but for the open street. The white faces of a few of the guests showed that they had, perhaps, a little anxiety, but for the most part an excitable curiosity took possession of the crowd.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross to his chum. "Let's see the fun. We haven't had a chance of seeing a real Zepp before."

The lad's words voiced the thoughts of nine-tenths of the dwellers of the metropolis who were within sight of the would-be Terror of the Air. Useless, indeed, were the official warnings as to the right thing to be done when the Zeppelins came. One man, however, drew a respirator from a hand-bag and proceeded to don it, until a roar of laughter from the stream of people issuing from the hotel caused him somewhat shamefacedly to replace the useless article.

Into the street the lads elbowed their way. The progress through the long corridor of the hotel reminded them of a football scrum. It was not the blind rush of panic; merely a desire to lose nothing of the "fun".

A couple of thousand feet overhead, a silvery-grey, bluff-pointed cylinder was moving with apparent slowness. Half a dozen search-lights concentrated their beams upon it. All around were rings of smoke, marking the bursting shells from the anti-aircraft guns; yet, apparently untouched by the hail of bullets, the giant gas-bag passed on, hurling out death and destruction upon the greatest city on earth—a city that, until the present war, had only once heard the thunder of hostile guns.

Breathlessly the lads watched the progress of the huge Zeppelin, momentarily expecting it to collapse and come tumbling, a tangled mass of flaming wreckage, to the ground. Viewed from below, it seemed impossible for the airship to escape the bursting shells. The air was rent by the crash of falling bombs and the sharp reports of the "anti's", while in the distance could be heard the clatter of broken glass. The explosive bombs wrought havoc upon the homes of harmless Londoners. Flames, too, were springing up, throwing a lurid glare upon the sky.

Yet, unless actually within radius of the German explosives, the populace was remarkably calm. Men, women, and children watched the Zeppelin, much in the same way as if they were witnessing a Brock's display at the Crystal Palace. Once again German frightfulness had failed—and failed badly—to attain its desired end.

"Hurrah! She's got it properly in the neck," shouted an excited special constable, as the Zeppelin gave a sudden lurch and began to drop at an acute angle.

But the next instant the silvery envelope was hidden in a cloud of dense black smoke. Seconds passed, but no shattered wreckage streamed earthwards. When the vapour dispersed, the Zeppelin was nowhere to be seen. Under cover of the smoke-cloud she had dropped a large quantity of ballast, and had soared skyward to a great altitude.

Gradually, like the rumble of a passing thunderstorm, the reports of the distant anti-aircraft guns died away. The Zepps had taken themselves off, leaving half a dozen fires and hundreds of more or less damaged buildings to impress upon the strafed English that insularity is no longer a protection from the cowardly night-raiders of the air.

"The show's over," declared Ross. "I vote we turn in. By Jove, there'll be a rush to the recruiting offices to-morrow!"

Requesting to be called at eight, the two midshipmen entered the lift and were whisked up to their room.

"What's that noise?" asked Vernon, pausing in the midst of unpacking his portmanteau.

"Something in the corridor," replied Ross.

"I don't think so. It's something or someone under my bed. Lock the door, old man; no, don't ring, if it's a burglar we'll tackle him."

Haye knelt by the bedside, Ross standing behind him ready to grapple with the intruder. Cautiously Vernon lifted the valance. As he did so he quickly withdrew his hand, which had come in contact with something warm and moist.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "It's a dog. Come out, sir!"

He was right. The animal gave a low whine, but made no attempt to budge.

"Mind the brute doesn't fix you," cautioned Ross.

"No fear," replied his chum confidently. "All dogs take to me. Come along, old boy."

Again he groped with his hand. His fingers touched the long, silky hair on the animal's neck. Slowly he drew the creature from its place of concealment. It was a sheep-dog pup, of about four months.

"Pretty-looking dog," exclaimed Vernon. "I wonder how it came here? Suppose it was frightened at the racket. It looks terrified out of its wits. Good dog!"

The pup fixed its large brown eyes upon Vernon's face, and attempted to wag its stumpy tail. As it did so the lads discovered that its hind quarters were tinged with blood.

"Oh, you poor little beggar!" said Vernon sympathetically. "However did you get that? I say, Ross, fill that basin with water."

"Better send for the boots," suggested Trefusis. "He'll take it to a vet.'s, or perhaps he'll know whose dog it is."

"Not much chance of finding a vet. at this time of night," objected Vernon. "Even the chemist will be busy with minor casualties. No, I won't worry the management. I've doctored dogs before now."

He began bathing the matted hair. The flow of blood had ceased, but upon examining the wound he found that it was a small circular incision.

He felt the spot. The pup, hitherto patient, uttered a low moan.

"There's something hard there," reported Vernon. "It's only a little way under the skin. We'll have it out. Hold his head, old man. Don't let him yelp; keep your hand over his muzzle. I'm afraid I must hurt the poor little beggar a bit."

Using the little blade of a knife, Haye adroitly probed the wound. Soft-hearted as he was, the action seemed to hurt him more than the patient; but his efforts were rewarded by the extraction of a small steel ball.

"A shrapnel bullet!" exclaimed Ross. "That accounts for the poor little brute being in such a terrible funk. Give him a drink of water. He'll be better now. We can bandage the wound with our handkerchiefs."

Five minutes later the dumb patient, his hind quarters swathed in elaborate bandages, was lying contentedly upon the hearth-rug, his stumpy tail, protruding between the folds of linen, wagging, as he tried to express his gratitude in doggy fashion.

"Now what's to be done?" enquired Ross.

"Let him stop until morning," replied Vernon decisively. "There might be a row if the hotel people know that there's a dog in the bedroom. The owner can't be much of a chap if he doesn't make enquiries."

"Perhaps he hasn't missed the dog," suggested Ross; "or it's just likely he isn't stopping at the hotel. Well, here goes. I'm turning in."

Ten minutes later both midshipmen were fast asleep. They had no middle watch to keep, and as for Zeppelins, they were merely a passing show.

At daylight Vernon was awakened by something licking his face. The pup, having shown his contempt for bandages by biting them to ribbons, was standing on his hind legs and licking his benefactor's nose, while his tail was wagging with the rapidity of the flag of an expert signaller. The hardy little animal had made light of his wound.

Having dressed, the midshipman made enquiries of the waiter, but without satisfactory results. No one in the hotel had a dog.

"I'll report him to the police," decided Vernon. "Ten to one the owner won't claim him. At any rate I'll stick to him. He's awfully fond of me already."

After breakfast Vernon sent the obliging waiter to purchase a collar, for the sheep-dog was wearing none. Sticking closely to Vernon's heels, the pup followed his new master to the police station, where an inspector took down a number of particulars.

"Very good, sir; that's all I want. I don't fancy you'll hear any more about it."

"What are you going to call him?" asked Ross, as the chums were seated in a first-class carriage, with the dog at Vernon's feet, on their way to Cornwall.

"Zepp," replied Vernon promptly.

"Not patriotic," objected Ross with a laugh.

"I think so," rejoined his chum.

"Why?"

"Because, like last night's Zeppelin, he turned tail when he had a shrapnel bullet in his stern."

"That's all very well," said Ross, "but you can't explain all that to everyone. Why not call him Shrapnel?"

"All right. 'Shrap' for short," agreed Vernon. "Good boy, Shrap! Wag your tail, you little rascal."

And Shrap obeyed promptly. Evidently the choice of a name reminiscent of bodily injury troubled him not one jot.



CHAPTER XXV

Off the Belgian Coast

"A chance of seeing something exciting at last!" exclaimed Ross. "Of course we've not had altogether a dull time, but this ought to be absolutely 'it'."

Two months had elapsed since the lads saw a hostile air-ship over London. Now they were about to see what a fleet of heavily armed British ships could do—not against a practically defenceless town, but against the strongly fortified German batteries on the Belgian coast.

Trefusis and Haye were on board the Capella, lying in the outer harbour at Dover. It was not the Capella that had come off second-best in an encounter with a floating mine, but another, similar in almost every respect to the lost patrol-boat. She was manned, too, by the same officers and crew—with one exception. Sub-lieutenant John Barry had obtained his promotion, and had been appointed to H.M.S. Hunbilker in command.

What the Hunbilker was, no one on board the Capella knew. The Admiralty publications at their disposal were blank as far as that ship was concerned. Speculation ran high: some of the officers expressing their opinion that Barry's command was a subsidized cargo-boat; others that she was one of the mosquito flotilla that had been evolved out of modern naval requirements. All were wrong, as they had yet to learn something more of the type of vessel flying the White Ensign that was helping to sweep the seas of the Black Cross of Germany.

"Well, old boy, how do you think you will like the racket?" asked Vernon, stooping to pat the massive head of a healthy-looking sheep-dog. Shrap had been allowed, by the Captain's permission, to join the Capella as a mascot—the pet of both officers and crew, and of Vernon Haye in particular.

Shrap winked knowingly, then trotted off to a secluded part of the chart-room, where, under a locker, he had hidden the remains of what, half an hour previously, had been Sub-lieutenant Fox's shaving-brush.

The Capella was by no means the only craft rolling sluggishly in the vast artificial harbour. There were seven motor patrol-vessels, specially detailed for the forthcoming operations as tenders to the sea-planes.

A strong array of monitors, craft of ugly but utilitarian design, low-lying, and mounting two 14-inch guns, had assembled for the purpose of making it hot for the Hun on the morrow. Only light-draughted craft were to be employed in the attack, since they could approach within very effective range of their guns, and at the same time stand little chance of being torpedoed by a handful of unterseebooten that had been transported in sections to Zeebrugge and there fitted for service.

According to the Admiral's plan, the monitors were to approach Ostend just after daybreak. In the offing a number of empty transports were to assemble, protected by a powerful flotilla of destroyers. The appearance of these transports would be taken by the Germans as an indication of an attempted landing of a British force, and troops would be hurriedly massed to repel the threatened invasion.

The monitors were thereupon to fire a certain number of rounds, then, followed in a parallel course by the transports, make for Zeebrugge. Alternate visits to both the Belgian ports in German hands were to be made throughout the day, thereby wearing out the German troops in fruitless marching and counter-marching, and at the same time diverting a strong body of men from a section of the trenches upon which the British troops were to deliver a sudden and unexpected assault.

At four in the morning the monitors began to leave Dover Harbour. Thanks to the stringent military precautions taken in the town—precautions that could with decided advantage be imitated elsewhere—the presence of spies was almost, if not quite, a matter of impossibility. Unheralded by the Kaiser's agents, the small yet powerful vessels cleared the entrance to the breakwater and headed for the Belgian coast.

An hour later a masthead lamp blinked from the Vega—the senior officer's ship of the patrol flotilla. Then, in line ahead, the swift motor craft slipped quietly out of the harbour to overtake their slower consorts.

The Capella, like the rest of her sister ships, was cleared for action. Stanchion-rails were unshipped; everything likely to splinter was sent below. In the wake of the armoured protection, sandbags were placed to reinforce the steel plating. Although the patrol-vessels were not to take part in the bombardment, they had to be prepared in case a forlorn hope in the shape of a few German torpedo-boats might attempt a sudden onslaught.

As attendants upon the sea-planes, too, it was possible that the patrol-boats would have to approach within range of the garrison artillery, especially in the event of one of the aerial craft being disabled and falling into the sea, on its return from "spotting" the hits of the monitors' guns.

Dawn had not yet broken when the monitors, followed at two miles' distance by the motor patrol, came in sight of the search-lights on the low-lying Belgian coast. Beyond the limit of direct rays, yet within range of their monster guns, the monitors were safe from detection. All that was wanting was the presence of the sea-planes, for whose work daylight was essential.

Slowly a pale light spread on the north-eastern horizon. The short wintry day was breaking. The sea was calm. The air was piercingly cold. A thin coating of frost covered the Capella's deck. Ross and his chum were heartily glad of their thick pilot-coats, mufflers, and woollen "mitts", as they sheltered behind the breast-work erected on the bridge.

Captain Syllenger slowly paced the bridge, frequently glancing at the clock in the chart-room, since it was almost a matter of impossibility to consult his watch, owing to his generous accumulation of clothing. It was now nearly eight o'clock, but as yet there were no signs of the expected sea-planes.

Just then the dull morning light was pierced by a brilliant flash from one of the monitors. The watchers on the Capella's bridge could see the low-lying hull give a decided jerk in a sternward direction under the reaction of the enormous projectile.

Long before the shell reached its objective, other 14-inch guns added their quota, and the air was rent with the flashes of the ordnance and the ear-splitting detonations following the discharge.

"By Jove!" exclaimed Sub-lieutenant Fox, who with his brother officers had had telescopes levelled upon the faintly outlined sand dunes. "There are the sea-planes!"

He was right. Flying at a great height the air-squadron had passed over the warships, and had taken up their observation stations without being seen or heard by anyone on board the patrol-vessels immediately over the German batteries, they were cutting "figure eights" and describing seemingly erratic circles, while the observers, coolly wirelessing the results of the monitors' shells, hardly heeded the furious fire directed upon them by the hostile anti-aircraft guns.

On a point extending for nearly three miles, the shore was torn by the terrific explosive shells. Clouds of sand, and yellow smoke mingled marked the scene of destruction, as battery after battery was spotted and promptly put out of action. Across the dunes could be seen swarms of ant-like figures—German troops flying for shelter from the devastating fire of the British guns.

But the action was by no means a one-sided one. Guns, large and small, replied; the heavier ordnance vigorously at first, and then gradually slackening down as the lyddite shells sought out the fixed emplacements. The lighter guns, mounted on armoured motor-cars, gave more trouble, since, after every shot, each piece was moved a hundred yards or more.

For several minutes the lads watched the unusual spectacle through the binoculars. Then something resembling a concentrated tornado screeched above their heads. Instinctively they ducked, the glasses falling from their hands. Ten seconds later Ross ventured to look up. Vernon was still holding his hands over his face. Then slowly he, too, opened his eyes.

The lads smiled sadly at each other, picked up their binoculars, and somewhat shamefacedly resumed their former positions.

It was their baptism of heavy gun-fire. A 42-centimetre shell had ricochetted and leapt full twenty feet above their heads.

Captain Syllenger was standing a few paces from them. Luckily, thought Ross, the skipper's back was turned, and he had not noticed the action of his young subordinates. But Trefusis was wrong. The Captain had seen them. Out of consideration, for he remembered his own sensations when first under fire, he affected not to notice the temporary panic that had overtaken the midshipmen.

The Capella was now running at half speed, in a direction parallel to the shore. All around, the sea was torn by the falling projectiles, most of which were sufficiently large to send her to the bottom like a stone. Yet, beyond the wounding of her wireless operator, the loss of her signalling-mast, and the shattering of one of her boats, she came off lightly. Although not the object of the hostile guns, she narrowly escaped several ricochets, until, at a signal from the senior officer, the patrol-vessels withdrew to a safer distance.

One of the monitors, too, was slowly steaming seawards, well down by the bows and smoke issuing from her fo'c'sle, while her single funnel was riddled like a sieve.

"Sea-plane returning, sir!" announced Sub-lieutenant Fox.

Flying at an altitude of about a thousand feet, one of the aerial scouts was making towards the line of patrol-vessels. She was flying steadily; her motor was purring rhythmically; a trail of thin bluish smoke from her exhaust belied the suggestion of an overheated engine. Yet something must have taken place for her to have quitted her observation station.

Promptly Captain Syllenger gave orders for the Capella's motors to stop, then "Easy astern" until way was off the ship.

Making a graceful volplane, the sea-plane alighted with a faint splash upon the surface of the water, and "taxied" to leeward of the motionless vessel.

The sea-plane was a "two-seater". The rearmost or observer's seat was unoccupied. In the foremost was a young Flight-Sub-lieutenant heavily clad, and his clean-shaven face almost hidden by an airman's helmet. For the first time, the officers on the bridge of the Capella noticed that the light steel plating was holed in many places, while the planes bore testimony to the accuracy of the enemy's shrapnel.

"A casualty!" sang out the Flying officer. "My pilot's been hit. Can you take him on board?"

Two of the Capella's crew swarmed over the side and gained the nearmost float, whence they clambered upon the body of the sea-plane. At the same time, one of the davits from which the Capella's shattered boat had hung was slung outboard. By dint of careful manoeuvring, the sea-plane was brought alongside with her main planes practically parallel to the side of the ship.

The injured man was lying on the floor of the fuselage. A canvas band was strapped round his waist, and, supported by the two seamen, he was gently hoisted on board the ship by means of the davit tackle.

The Flight-Sub swung himself over the side of the Capella and ascended the bridge.

"Got it hot at fifteen hundred feet," he explained. "My pilot was winged. Hit twice, I believe. Luckily the old bird kept fairly steady until I could clamber into the pilot's seat and take control. Rough luck, too. We were just doing a useful bit of spotting. I suppose, sir, there's no one on board who can handle a 'plane?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Captain Syllenger.

"Rough luck!" exclaimed the Sub despondently. Then, brightening up, he asked:

"Can you lend me a 'wireless' man? I could take on the pilot's job."

"Our man's knocked out," said the skipper.

"That's done it!" exclaimed the Sub. "There's a particularly tough battery that I wanted to see knocked out. No. 5 was almost on it when we got it hot."

Ross was thinking rapidly and deeply. He knew the Morse code well. He had dabbled in wireless telegraphy at school. Perhaps——

He felt that it was almost too impertinent to offer his services, yet the matter was urgent. It was dangerous, too, most dangerous; but the midshipman had learnt to place duty before personal consideration.

"Well?" asked Captain Syllenger as Trefusis stepped up and saluted smartly.

"I'll go if I can be of any assistance, sir," said Ross. "I can Morse and use a buzzer, and I have a knowledge of wireless."

"Carry on, then," replied Captain Syllenger.

"Good man!" exclaimed the Flight-Sub-lieutenant. "Can you stick heights?"

"I've done a lot of cliff climbing—I am a Cornishman, you know," said Trefusis. "I haven't had a chance of flying before."

"You have now!" added the Flight-Sub.



CHAPTER XXVI

Disabled in Mid-air

Ross climbed agilely into the observer's seat, and, at his flying companion's suggestion, buckled a broad leather strap round his waist. At his right hand was the wireless transmitter, together with a pair of prismatic glasses and map. The latter was held in a transparent celluloid case, while the glasses were secured by a cord sufficiently long to enable the observer to use them in any direction. Everything was attached to the sea-plane so that in the event of the machine having to "loop the loop" nothing would be lost.

The Sub, who for the present was to act as pilot, took his place in the forward part of the body. Giving a few preliminary touches to the mechanism, he announced that everything was in order.

The self-starter was released and the motor fired, causing the twin propellers to buzz smoothly and powerfully.

Ross waved his hand to his chum as the sea-plane glided away from the Capella, and from that moment his whole attention was centred upon the work on which he was engaged.

For nearly a hundred yards the sea-plane "taxied", rising lightly over the waves; then almost imperceptibly it glided upwards with an even motion. Ross could hardly believe he was flying until he saw the sea apparently receding from him.

"All right?" asked the Sub through the telephone that formed the only audible means of communication between pilot and observer. "Not feeling giddy?"

"Not a bit," replied Ross. Without experiencing the faintest sensation of vertigo, he found himself able to lean over the side of the chassis and look down at the scene two thousand feet beneath him.

The sea-plane was rising in a direction diverging obliquely with the coast. She was, in fact, almost over the line of empty transports that looked little bigger than a fleet of toy boats. Farther away could be discerned the Capella and her consorts, moving with apparent slowness upon a perfectly calm sea, for at that altitude the waves were merged into a flat surface. Small splashes of white—the spray thrown up by falling shells—could be seen all around the patrol-vessels, which, in obedience to a signal, had now taken up a position rather nearer to the monitors.

Presently the Flight-Sub, having gained the desired altitude, moved the steering-plane ever so slightly. Quickly the machine answered her helm, swinging round until she pointed towards the land.

Three minutes later Ross found himself immediately above the British monitors. The sea-plane was now pitching slightly in the disturbed air, for the concussion of the heavy weapons was distinctly felt even at seven hundred yards above the bombarding ships. Although the roar of the concerted cannonade was deafening, Ross heard not a sound of it. To all intents, as far as he was concerned, the guns might have been fired with silencers attached to their muzzles. The whirr of the sea-plane's motor and the rush of air past his ears out-voiced every other sound.

Five miles beyond the line of monitors, could be discerned the Belgian coast, composed for the most part of undulating sand-dunes dotted with clusters of buildings.

As the sea-plane approached the land Ross could, with the aid of his binoculars, distinguish other objects—wavy lines, dotted with ant-like figures bunched together round something that looked like stumps of a lead pencil. The lines were the German trenches, the "ants" grey-coated artillerymen, and the "stumps" the heavy howitzers.

"That's our pigeon!" spoke the Flight-Sub through the telephone. "The battery a hundred yards to the north of that ruined church tower. Our fellows haven't knocked it out yet. Wireless them; fifty yards over."

Ross sent the desired information. The sea-plane, having flown over its objective, turned, describing an elongated figure eight. As she swung round, Ross noticed a mushroom-like cloud of white smoke a short distance beneath, and to the left of the fuselage. Then another a hundred feet immediately in front. At each "mushroom" the sea-plane curtsied. Something zipped close to the lad's ear. A wire snapped, the severed portions circling themselves into erratic spirals. A fragment of fabric from one of the main planes flew past him, like a scrap of tissue-paper in the grip of a boisterous wind.

Then Ross tumbled to it. Those silent mushrooms of smoke were shrapnel shells bursting unpleasantly close. For a moment, the young observer felt himself seized by an almost irresistible impulse to take refuge under the coaming surrounding his seat. He uttered an involuntary exclamation of unwelcome surprise.

"What's up?" asked a voice in his ear. It was the Flight-Sub, to whom the telephone had transmitted Ross's exclamation.

"Nothing," replied the lad.

"Thought so," was the laconic reply. "Don't worry."

Reasoning with himself, Ross came to the decision that the advice was thoroughly sound. Worrying would not help him in the least; neither would cowering inside the frail body of the sea-plane. Twice within a very short space of time he had experienced a sensation of "funk". Twice he was surprised to find how quickly he recovered; for, at the next shot from the monitor for which he was "spotting", he found that the sensation of "cold feet" had given place to one of exhilaration when he was able to record a "direct hit".

By this time the initial operations were terminating. The German fire had almost ceased to be troublesome. Most of the big howitzers and long-range guns had been knocked out. A few were still firing, but very erratically.

At a signal from the senior officer, the monitors drew out of range, and steaming at the maximum speed—a bare 11 knots—kept a course parallel with the shore, accompanied by the patrol-vessels and transports.

Well above effective shrapnel range, the squadron of sea-planes headed for Zeebrugge. A number of aviatiks, which were flying over the German new sea base, hurriedly turned tail. Previous experience had taught them that naval air-craft could hit hard, in addition to carrying out observation work.

There were, however, plenty of evidences that the Germans were rushing up thousands of troops in order to deal with the supposed landing in force. Train after train made towards the town, crammed with soldiers.

The sea-planes let the trains pass unhindered. It was not their purpose to stop Germans from pouring into Zeebrugge. Once the troops were there, then would be the time to cut their lines of communication.

Again the monitors opened fire. Their reception was hotter than it had been in the neighbourhood of Ostend, for, in spite of frequent and destructive molestation, the Germans had succeeded in throwing up numerous heavily armed and cleverly concealed batteries.

At almost extreme range the British ships maintained a rapid high-angle fire. In a few minutes fires had broken out in several places. Fifteen-hundred-pound shells dropped in the canal basin, blowing to atoms several submarines that were in the process of fitting out. The harbour works were swept by the huge projectiles. The long curved breakwater suffered heavily. Huge gaps appeared in the solid masonry. Everything lying afloat in the enclosed water was either set on fire or sunk. In an hour the havoc wrought at Zeebrugge had wiped out the work of months.

Ross had little time to notice the work of destruction. His particular business was to observe the fire directed upon a large redoubt to the north-east of the town. The first shell from the monitor fell short, blowing an enormous crater in the grass-grown dunes. The second fell beyond, completely demolishing a house. The third dropped fairly in the centre of the redoubt, causing a terrific explosion that was not due solely to the lyddite bursting-charge. The magazine had exploded.

Skywards rushed an enormous cloud of black and yellow smoke. Caught by the blast of the violently displaced air the sea-plane rocked, then began dropping like a stone.

For the moment Ross imagined that the end had come. He was no longer afraid. A sensation of intense curiosity as to what the machine and its occupants would look like seemed to obsess his mind.

Then, with a jerk that reminded the midshipman of the sudden starting of a lift, the sea-plane "flattened out" and began to climb out of the enveloping cloud of smoke.

The Flight-Sub turned his head and grinned broadly. His manner could not do otherwise than inspire confidence. Although not a pilot, he was master of the frail machine. Side-slips and nose-dives troubled him but little, provided he was flying at a safe altitude.

"A jolly good wipe-out!" he exclaimed. "There won't be many Bosches left within half a mile of that battery, I'm thinking. Now watch when the next shot lands: that will give you the objective."

A sharp buzzing in the receiver attached to Ross's flying helmet announced that the monitor was "calling up" her observer. Quickly the lad seized the pencil, and gave the signal that he was ready to take down the message.

The Morse signal, when translated into writing, was as follows:—

"Register Position 47."

"Good!" exclaimed the Plight-Sub when Ross had telephoned him the message. He consulted his map, which was similar to the one at the observer's disposal "Position 47: that's a railway junction."

In the course of their work of fortifying Zeebrugge, the Huns had constructed a double-track railway, passing within a few yards of the Dutch frontier for several miles before heading straight for the new submarine base. Two miles from Zeebrugge the line joined the existing railway, the junction being recorded on British airmen's maps as Position 47.

The time was now ripe for the monitor which had successfully demolished the redoubt to attempt a similar exploit, namely, to destroy the junction.

The sea-plane's appearance was the signal for a furious fire from the numerous anti-aircraft guns mounted in the vicinity of the station.

At six thousand feet the risk of being hit was small, while the height did not prevent the observer making a fairly accurate register of the hits.

It was a very long range, but the monitor's 14-inch guns did excellent work. Seven shells sufficed to reduce the station to a heap of ruins and blow whole sections of the line to atoms.

Again came a wireless order:

"Sea-plane to proceed to Zwilhuit. Attempt destruction of bridge across canal."

Once more the Flight-Sub smiled. This was work that suited him immensely. For the nonce "spotting" was finished with. The sea-plane had to drop her cargo of bombs upon an important strategic position.

"All right!" exclaimed the Flying officer. "Keep a cool head. When I give the word, press that pedal under your right foot. Bend down and you'll find a safety pin just above the floor. Remove it, but be jolly careful not to touch the pedal until I give the word."

Underneath the fuselage were six bombs hanging from an inclined steel rod. These were released by means of a rachet operated by the pedal to which the Flight-Sub had alluded. To prevent a premature release the pedal was "locked" by a safety device. When this was removed, each depression of the pedal would result in the liberation of a potent missile of destruction.

The sea-plane was not alone on her errand. In her wake flew two more, for the actual bombardment had now ceased, and the air-craft were at liberty to engage upon a raid several miles inland.