Sea, Spray And Spindrift

These stories were not originally written with a view to their ultimate reappearance in book form, and most of them were written some while ago. “Tubby’s Dhow” was first published in Herbert Strang’s Annual for Boys; “The Stranding of the Hoi-Hau,” “The Salvage of the Cashmere” and “The Luck of the Tavy,” in the Scout; “The Gunner’s Luck,” in the Weekly Telegraph; “The Inner Patrol,” in the Royal Magazine; “Horatio Nelson Chivers” and “The Escape of the Speedwell,” in the British Boys’ Annual (Messrs. Cassell & Co., Ltd.), and “The Gun-runners,” in the St. George’s Magazine. I wish to acknowledge my indebtedness to the respective Editors who have so kindly allowed me to republish my work in book form.

It is needless to remark that all my characters are fictitious.

“Taffrail.”

1917.

The torpedo must have struck her forward	Frontispiece
	TO FACE PAGE
Tubby, making a sudden spring, hit him full on the point of the jaw	20
Jim saw the masts of the native craft falling, whilst masses of debris were flung skyward by the force of the powerful explosive	47
He saw to his inexpressible relief that the entrance to Salhanda Bay was in sight	57
“It’s laudanum. Here, take it and hide it somewhere”	77
The fiery trail of a rocket leapt out from the darkness	89
He seized the axe and made a wild slash	142
The glare died away, but not before he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark shape of a vessel	150

“Oh, blow this Arabic!” exclaimed the midshipman petulantly, shutting up the phrase book on the table before him with a bang and leaning back to stretch himself.

“What’s the matter now, Tubby?” asked a small officer called Travers, who, by reason of his rather shrill voice, always went by the name of “Squeaker.”

“Tubby,” otherwise Midshipman Arthur Geoffrey Plantagenet, Royal Navy, mopped his face for a minute before replying. It must be admitted that he fully deserved his nickname, for in appearance he was short and very rotund, and was the proud possessor of a bright red face, a crop of freckles, and a shock of sandy hair. His tout ensemble was not prepossessing, but his even white teeth and blue eyes saved him from being absolutely ugly, particularly when he laughed.

“What was that you said, Squeaker?” he said at last.

“I asked you what was the matter.”

“It’s this heat,” Tubby complained. “One can’t do any work while it’s like this!”

Their ship—H.M.S. Clytia, light cruiser—was in the Gulf of Oman, and it certainly was over-poweringly hot; for the pitch bubbled in the seams on deck, while the awnings overhead seemed to collect rather than mitigate the heat from the blazing sun above.

“But why d’you want to learn Arabic?” asked Travers after another pause.

“Because I want to know the language, silly!” retorted Plantagenet. “I know all you fellows jeered at me when I took it up, but though I’ve only been at it six months I know quite enough to make myself understood ashore.”

“But—— ” the other was about to protest.

“Be quiet, you two!” growled a drowsy sub-lieutenant from a deck chair. “Can’t you let a fellow get to sleep?”

It was a “make and mend” afternoon, which in other words meant that all the midshipmen had a half-holiday. It followed, therefore, since the ship was at sea and they could not get ashore, that the greater number of them followed the usual custom of the Service and spent it in sleep. The small curtained-off inclosure on the upper deck, serving for the time being as the gunroom, since the heat down below was quite unendurable, was full of young officers stretched out on forms and deck chairs in various stages of drowsiness and deshabille. Tubby and Travers, in fact, the latter of whom had been industriously writing up his journal, were the only two members of the little community who were awake.

“I say, Squeaker,” whispered the former, glancing round to see if the sub-lieutenant was asleep, “you know we’re anchoring off one of the villages at daylight to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I heard the skipper telling the commander that all the officers who could be spared could go ashore for a run, snotties as well. It ’ud be rather a good idea if you and I took our guns. We might get Molyneux to come too,” he added, referring to one of the other midshipmen.

“I’m all for it,” agreed Squeaker; “but is there anything to shoot?”

“I dare say. I had a look at the chart this afternoon, and about five miles along the coast from where we’ll anchor there’s some cover a short way inland. It’s not far from a village. I vote we go in that direction.”

“All right,” said Travers; “but d’you think it’ll be quite safe?”

“Of course, it will; why shouldn’t it be?”

“I’ve heard that all these villagers are in league with the gun-runners we’re trying to catch,” explained the other. “It would be rather a bad look-out if we got caught.”

“Oh, that’s all rot,” put in Tubby. “They won’t hurt us. You’ll come, I suppose?”

“You bet.”

“All right. That’s fixed up. I know Molyneux’ll be keen.”

To understand the exact nature of the operations in which the Clytia was taking part, it is necessary to refer to the map. The native dhows carrying arms and ammunition usually left different places on the Oman and Pirate coasts of Arabia, their destinations being the small bays and creeks between Lingah and Charbar on the Mekran coast. On being disembarked, the weapons were loaded on camels and taken inland to Afghanistan, where, subsequently, they were used by the tribesmen against the British forces on the northern frontier of India.

To guard against this gun-running, so prejudicial to British interests, the Oman and Pirate coasts and the Mekran coast of Persia were being patrolled by cruisers, while further inshore a ceaseless watch was maintained by the boats of the Squadron.

For two weeks the Clytia had been cruising slowly up and down between Charbar and Jask, this being the portion of coast she had been detailed to watch, while her four largest sailing boats, carrying Maxim guns, and with their crews fully armed, had been sent away in charge of her lieutenants. They were each responsible for about thirty miles of coast, and had orders to search all the inner anchorages and small bays, and to overhaul and examine all the native craft they came across.

Each week the ship met her small fry at previously determined rendezvous, and on these occasions she received their reports, replenished their stock of water and food, and, if necessary, relieved the crews. But though the watch had been carried on with tireless vigilance, nothing had happened and no dhows with arms on board had been seized.

The men were beginning to weary of the ceaseless monotony. There was no excitement to keep them going, and for a lieutenant, several seamen, a signalman and a native interpreter to be herded together in a small undecked boat about 28 feet long, was not altogether comfortable. They had to live, eat and sleep as best they could, and though sometimes they did get ashore on a barren stretch of sand, where they would amuse themselves in the cool of the evening by kicking a football about, they were getting sick of it. The weather, too, was not always fine, for at times the boats would be compelled to anchor off the coast to ride out a strong “Shamal,” or north-westerly gale. This was always a most trying experience, but the only other alternative was to land up some creek, and this, as a rule, was too hazardous to be attempted, for the inhabitants were generally hostile, and would not hesitate to attack if they had the least chance of success.

Tubby’s proposed expedition, therefore, was not quite so safe as he imagined.

Early the next morning the Clytia anchored off a small village on the coast some distance to the eastward of Jask. She was to remain till the following morning, and all the officers and men who could be spared from duty, including the midshipmen, were sent ashore to stretch their legs.

Directly they landed, Tubby, Travers and Molyneux set off to the eastward along the coast. They were burdened with their guns, cartridge bags and water-bottles, and on account of the great heat soon found progress very trying. The route led them across large tracts of dry powdery sand, into which they sank up to their ankles, through occasional patches of thick scrub, which were difficult to negotiate, and by the time they neared their destination they were all three tired out, hot, and very thirsty, in spite of the copious draughts of water they had swallowed on the way. There was not a tree in the place under which they could sit for protection from the sun, and they all wanted rest badly.

“What d’you think we’d better do, Tubby?” asked Molyneux, stopping to lace up his boot. “I feel like a spell in the shade, but there’s not a tree in sight anywhere.”

“I’m tired of marching about like this,” agreed the young officer addressed. “What do you think about it, Squeaker?”

The youth looked round for some moments without replying. “I think,” he remarked at length, “we might go on to that village and see if they’ll let us sit down in one of their houses for a bit. The place’ll smell like fury, but it’s either that or no spell.” He pointed to the small collection of mud hovels about half a mile ahead.

“Um, yes,” agreed Tubby. “I suppose that’s what we’d better do. Come on!”

They tramped forward, but had not advanced more than two hundred yards when they saw a man advancing along the beach towards them. He was clad in a dirty white burnous and, coming forward, raised his hand in a sort of military salute, and showed his teeth in a grin.

“You shoot?” he asked in English.

“Yes,” answered Tubby.

“I good guide, tell where you get plenty big bird,” said the new-comer, tapping himself on the chest and then pointing inland.

“We want to sit down for a bit,” explained Molyneux. “Have you a house in that village?”

“I got good house; you come see,” said the man, pointing over his shoulder. “My name Takadin. Engleesh call me Jack Robinson. Very good name. I been Bombay, Aden, and plenty big town. I know plenty Engleeshman. I very good man.”

“Where did you learn English?” Tubby asked.

“I sailor B.1 boat, long time,” answered the Arab.

“What d’you think?” Tubby asked his companions. “Shall we go with him?”

“I vote we do,” they both said at once, for they were very tired; and led by their new friend, they were soon in what was evidently the main street of the village.

It was really nothing more nor less than a narrow passage-way between two rows of very tumbledown-looking one-storeyed mud hovels, and the advent of Europeans was evidently regarded by the inhabitants as something quite out of the ordinary. Half-a-dozen mangy-looking curs sniffed suspiciously at their heels, while tribes of small brown children, clad in the sketchiest of garments, gazed at the foreigners open-mouthed with amazement. Numbers of men, dressed in dirty white robes, eyed them with evil, scowling faces, and it was quite obvious that whatever feelings for the British Mr. “Jack Robinson” had, these Arabs were none too friendly. There was something insolent in the way they laughed, and in their glowering, sullen glances, and one or two of them, Tubby noticed, spat on the ground after the little procession had passed.

The boy felt nervous, for there was no mistaking the hostility of the natives; but it was too late to draw back now, nor, for the time being, could he impart his fears to his companions. He was thinking how sorry he was not to have taken the advice of people who knew better than he did, when their guide suddenly stopped before a low doorway.

“This my house!” he exclaimed with an air of pride. “Very good house!”

The midshipmen did not think much of it, for it was distinctly on its last legs, but followed him inside. The room they found themselves in contained little in the way of furniture, but asking them to sit down on a kind of couch running along one side of the wall, the Arab pushed aside a mat hanging across the doorway leading into the inner room, and disappeared inside. Judging from the shrill cackle that went on as soon as he entered, the ladies of the establishment were within, but the noise was rather welcome, for it gave Tubby a chance of talking to his friends without being overheard.

“I say, Molyneux,” he said in a whisper, “I vote we clear out of this village as soon as we can. Did you see how those fellows looked at us as we came along?”

“Yes, I did,” answered the other rather nervously. “D’you think they mean any harm, though?”

“No, I don’t think so; the ship’s too close. I wish we hadn’t come, for all that. Whatever you do, keep your guns loaded, and don’t let go of them.” He noiselessly slipped a couple of cartridges into the breech of his weapon.

“Look out!” hissed Travers. “The Arab’s coming back!”

“Mum’s the word then,” whispered Tubby; “but we’ll clear out as soon as we can, and for goodness’ sake don’t let’s get separated!”

There was no time for further conversation, for just at that moment the mat was pushed aside and Takadin came in with a tray, on which there were several small bowls filled with dates and a few nasty-looking native cakes.

“Please to eat,” he said with a deprecatory smile. “I poor man; Engleesh my friend.”

The food did not look very appetising, but now it had been brought the boys could not very well refuse to eat for fear of being thought uncivil, and selecting some dates, as being the most harmless, began to nibble at them. The sandwiches out of their haversacks, however, were far more to their liking, and giving one or two to Takadin in return for his hospitality, they had soon made a satisfactory meal, which they washed down with water from their bottles. Having eaten, Tubby felt more cheerful, and was beginning to forget his fears, when a figure appeared in the doorway leading to the street outside.

Their host instantly rose to his feet and made a low obeisance to the new-comer, a tall, fine-looking, white-bearded Arab clad in the inevitable burnous. He was evidently of better class than the other men they had seen, and judging from Takadin’s behaviour that he was a notability of some kind, the boys stood up and bowed. Their salutation was returned.

“Peace be unto thee, my son,” said the new arrival, addressing Takadin.

He spoke in Arabic, but Tubby had little difficulty in understanding his words.

“Peace be unto thee, my father,” returned their host, bowing again.

“What do these dogs of infidels under thy roof?” demanded the Sheikh, for such he was, and casting a piercing glance from his black eyes at the three boys.

“They come, my father, from the war vessel anchored off the coast. They came seeking shelter from the sun.”

“Dogs!” hissed the old man. “Spawn of the devil! May their eyes be blasted with the fire which never languishes! By the Beard of the Prophet, my son, thou didst a good stroke of business in sheltering them!”

Tubby gave a start of surprise which nearly betrayed him.

“But I came, O Takadin,” he went on to say, “to have a word with thee. ’Tis only for thine ear.”

“Speak on, my father; my women are out of hearing, and the unbelievers have no knowledge of our tongue.”

Tubby, half beside himself with apprehension and excitement, listened intently, trying hard not to let his face betray the fact that he understood most of what was being said. But the Sheikh was talking again.

“The dhow from Oman with the rifles my son, when does she arrive?”

“Seven days from now, my father, at the spot close by the watch tower. The camels will be ready, thy servant has seen to that, and the nakhuda[A] has orders to land them four hours after the setting of the sun.”

“It is well. I like not these dogs of hillmen in our midst. They strip us bare like a flock of locusts. I like them not, they and their camels. I shall give thanks to Allah when they depart.”

“Even so, my father,” agreed Takadin. “They are carrion fit only for vultures.”

“Speak no word to any man of what we have said,” ordered the Sheikh.

“Thy servant’s lips are sealed, my father.”

“But these unbelievers, my son, who have fallen into our hands. A ransom will not come amiss.”

“Their war vessel is very close, my father, and our village will surely be laid in ruins if they should be harmed.”

The Sheikh made a gesture of annoyance. “Thou art my servant, O Takadin!” he exclaimed angrily. “What I have said I have said!”

“Even so, my father,” said the other, with a cringing bow.

“’Tis well. Delay them here till I return; I go to seek my men. The infidels shall be detained. By Allah! Would that I had the opportunity to sear their flesh with red-hot pincers! To make them food for the vultures of the desert!” With which terrible wish the Sheikh disappeared.

For a second or two Tubby was absolutely nonplussed by what he had heard. Takadin would certainly carry out his orders if he could, and in a minute or two the chief would probably return with his men. The boy racked his brains for a way out of the difficulty. To escape through the village was an obvious impossibility, for they would have to run the gauntlet of all the inhabitants. Then the boy’s memory came to his assistance. He suddenly recollected the topography of the place, and how, when walking down the street, he had seen a little strip of blue sea at the end of it. He remembered, also, that when they were approaching the village he had noticed a low wooden pier with a boat made fast alongside it. Here was a solution. The house they were in could not be more than two hundred yards from the water. They must make a dash for the boat. All these thoughts flashed through his mind, but what had to be done must be done at once.

“I say, Molyneux!” he said in an excited whisper, “be ready to make a dash as soon as I do!”

“Whatever for?” asked the other, “what’s all the——?”

“I can’t tell you now,” hissed Tubby, “but it’s jolly serious. Be ready to make a bolt for the sea; you too, Travers.”

The other two looked at each other in amazement, for they could not conceive what had happened, but they both followed Tubby’s example when he stood up with his gun.

Takadin noticed what was going on. “You no go,” he said with a treacherous smile, “you stay my house. I very—— ”

But he got no further, for Tubby, making a sudden spring, hit him full on the point of the jaw.

The Arab was quite unprepared for the sudden attack and staggered backwards, and another severe punch laid him flat on the ground.

“Run!” yelled the assailant to his companions, “run for all you’re worth!”

He dashed out of the door followed by the others, and as he emerged he caught a hurried glimpse of the Sheikh and half-a-dozen men coming down the street from the right. The latter shouted and promptly started off in pursuit, but the boys made for the sea at full pelt, the din behind making them run all the faster.

Every second Tubby expected to hear a bullet whistling by his ears, but, though he did not know it till later, the Arabs carried no firearms. Still, the situation was quite bad enough, for though nobody tried to intercept them in their flight, they could hear their pursuers padding along close behind.

On and on they flew until, after what seemed an eternity, they reached the end of the lane and saw the open sea before them, and the wooden jetty, with the boat still made fast alongside it, a short distance to the left. Tubby’s breath came in great gasps, his head throbbed, and he felt as if his heart would burst, but he tore on with the others close behind.

By the time they reached the shore end of the pier, however, the leading Arab, who was some distance ahead of his friends, was barely three feet behind Molyneux, the last of the three. The man suddenly nerved himself for a supreme effort, and springing forward seized the boy by the shoulder. Molyneux promptly swerved in his stride, but tripped, and before he quite knew what had happened had fallen headlong on his face. The Arab, unable to stop himself, still came on, and catching his foot in the prostrate boy’s body, gave a loud yell and disappeared over the edge of the pier into the water.

Tubby, hearing the commotion, glanced round to see what had happened, and, stopping himself suddenly, turned round and dashed back to his fallen friend. Travers also checked himself, not knowing what to do.

“Get into the boat!” Tubby yelled to him, noticing his indecision. “Get in and cast her off!”

The small midshipman clambered on board and began to fumble with the painter, while Tubby put back the safety catch of his hammerless gun and held it ready. The other Arabs, meanwhile, had just reached the shore end of the pier, and to the boy’s relief he suddenly noticed that none of them carried firearms.

“If you come any further I’ll fire!” he shouted breathlessly in their own language. “Get up, Molyneux!” he added in English. “Get down into the boat and cover ’em with your gun!”

Molyneux sprang to his feet and joined Travers in the boat.

The Arabs had halted when they heard Tubby’s hail, and were now talking excitedly among themselves, but then one of them drew a long evil-looking knife and made a step forward.

Tubby promptly covered him. “Drop that or I fire!” he commanded. To his intense surprise the man obeyed his peremptory order.

“Thou son of a pig!” bellowed the enraged Sheikh. “Wouldst thou obey the command of an infidel? Seize him, I say! Seize him!” But the men did not like the look of the gun muzzles confronting them, and still hung back.

“Come on!” shouted Travers at length, “I’ve cast her off!”

“Have you got ’em covered?” asked Tubby.

“Yes,” cried Molyneux, squinting along his weapon.

Tubby walked backwards until he came to where the boat lay, and then jumped on board.

“By Allah! Thou craven sons of pigs!” yelled the Sheikh. “They would steal the boat! At them!”

The men came panting along the low jetty, but it was too late, for by the time they reached the end the boat was a good half-dozen yards away. They could do nothing; there was no other boat in which they could give chase, and they had to content themselves by throwing strange curses at the three boys who had outwitted them.

“By George!” remarked Tubby breathlessly, tugging at one of the clumsy oars, “that was a jolly narrow squeak! I thought they had us!”

“I regarded it as a dead cert!” said Molyneux gravely.

A gentle south-westerly breeze had sprung up, and five minutes later, as the discomfited Arabs were leaving the pier, the sail had been hoisted, and the boat was bowling along the coast towards the spot where the adventurers had landed.

As soon as he recovered his breath, Tubby told his companions of the conversation he had overheard, and their eyes opened wider and wider with astonishment as he went on.

“Well, what d’you propose to do?” queried Molyneux, when at length the tale was told.

“Tell the commander,” said Tubby. “But I say, you fellows, not a word of this to anyone else!”

“Right O!” they both agreed.

There is no necessity to describe the homeward journey, or how, after sailing about three miles along the coast, they landed, left the boat on the beach, and finished the journey on foot.

But that evening Tubby summoned up his courage, and in an interview with the commander told him all he had heard. But that officer, though he promised to inform the captain, did not realise how much Arabic the boy really knew, and at any rate it was quite obvious that he did not believe his story.

Three mornings later, when the Clytia had resumed her weary patrol of the coast, a messenger suddenly burst into the place where Tubby was endeavouring to work out a sight under the direction of the naval instructor.

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man, “but is Mr. Plantagenet ’ere?”

“Here I am,” said that young officer. “What is it?”

“Please, sir, th’ capten wants you on th’ bridge at once.”

Tubby dashed off, and on reaching the bridge went up to the captain and saluted. “You sent for me, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Plantagenet. The commander tells me you know Arabic. Is that so?”

“I know a little, sir,” Tubby modestly answered.

“Enough to understand conversations when you hear ’em, eh?” asked the captain with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, be ready to leave the ship in ten minutes’ time. The native interpreter in the third cutter,” he waved his hand to where the boat they had just met lay alongside, “is down with fever, and you’ll have to go instead of him. I do not, Mr. Plantagenet, approve of your going visiting native villages when you go ashore, you must understand, but I suppose you remember whereabouts this one was?”

“Perfectly, sir,” said Tubby.

“So much the better, then. You may perhaps be able to bring back that dhow you heard the men talking about. Hurry up now, collect what you want, and then report yourself to Mr. Thompson, who is in charge of the boat.”

The midshipman dashed off to his chest, without stopping even to tell his messmates of what had occurred, and hurrying back on deck again reported himself as ordered.

Five minutes later the ship had left them and was steaming off to the westward, and the cutter, hoisting her sails to the light off-shore breeze, resumed her work of watching the coast.

“But are you quite certain of what you’ve just told me?” asked Thompson, rather incredulously, when, an hour later, Tubby imparted his secret.

“Yes, sir, quite,” said the boy. “I told the commander directly I got on board, and he told the skip—the captain, sir. He evidently believes it, sir. I’m quite certain myself, too,” he reiterated.

“Well, we’ll have a try at this dhow of yours, and if we do get her, it’ll be a bit of a feather in your cap, young man.”

Tubby looked very pleased.

“Luckily,” continued the lieutenant, “the watch tower you mention is on our beat. Just to the east’ard of the village where you went. You say they were to land the stuff four hours after sunset four days from now. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, at that time, close on midnight, I should think it ’ud be, this boat’ll pull into the bay by the watch tower, and, with any luck, granted of course that this yarn of yours is all right, we’ll collar ’em red-handed.”

Tubby sincerely hoped they would. He did not want to be made a fool of.

The night was very dark with no moon; hardly a ripple disturbed the glassy surface of the water, and silently, for her oars were muffled, the cutter crept on.

“There’s the watch tower!” said Thompson in a whisper, pointing away to the port bow where a dim shape could just be seen against the blue of the sky.

Tubby took his watch out of his pocket and held it close to the shaded lantern in the stern of the boat. “By Jove!” he ejaculated.

“What’s the matter?” Thompson inquired.

“It’s nearly one o’clock, sir,” the boy replied anxiously. “She ought to be here by now.” Then a sudden horrible thought flashed through his mind. “I clean forgot!” he exclaimed in an agitated whisper.

“Forgot what?”

“That when the Arabs chased us I talked to ’em in Arabic, sir. They’ll know that I understood what was said about the rifles, and they may have been able to tell the dhow to go somewhere else. Suppose—— ” but he was interrupted by the coxswain.

“I thought I seed somethink over there, sir,” whispered the man excitedly, pointing to starboard. “A sort o’ shadow like—— Yessir,” he suddenly broke off, “there’s somethink there right enough!”

“Hard-a-port! Steer straight for it!” ordered the lieutenant, seeing what the man was pointing at.

Before they had gone fifty yards in the new direction the shadow resolved itself into the familiar outline of a dhow heading in for the land. The wind had dropped, but those in the cutter could hear the creaking of her sweeps as she approached. Nearer and nearer she drew. Three hundred yards—two hundred—one hundred. Tubby unbuttoned the holster of his revolver and waited; the seconds seemed interminable. Then, quite suddenly, the Arabs became aware that they were not alone, for a loud hail came out of the darkness. “Is that thou, O Takadin?” yelled a voice in Arabic, its owner probably thinking that a boat must have come out from the village to guide them into the anchorage.

“Tell ’em to heave to!” ordered Thompson.

Tubby did so.

“Name of Allah!” shrieked the voice in alarm. “Arm yourselves, my brothers! The Kafir dogs are upon us!”

A spit of flame broke out from the black shape ahead, and a bullet sang off into the darkness.

“Give ’em a round or two from the maxim!” cried Thompson.

“Pop, pop, pop—pop, pop,” went the little weapon.

A chorus of yells and shrieks came from the dhow, and the movement of her oars ceased abruptly as the crew sprang for their weapons. No further shots were fired, but a few sturdy strokes brought the cutter alongside, and boating their oars the bluejackets endeavoured to board. But the vessel’s high bulwarks were lined with armed Arabs, who slashed and hewed with their swords whenever a head appeared over the gunwale. Twice were the sailors driven back into their boat by sheer weight of superior numbers, and for a time the result hung in the balance, for even with their cutlasses and revolvers they could not gain a footing on the enemy’s deck.

Thompson, however, summed up the situation, and noticing that the greater number of the enemy were busy repelling the attack from the stern of the boat, suddenly leapt forward and clambered on board the dhow from there, before anyone could arrive to resist him. He was followed by three men, and the instant they were seen, all the Arabs came forward to drive them back. This diversion gave the others the opportunity they wanted, and before he quite understood what had happened, Tubby found himself scrambling on board followed by the men. Rushing forward, with a revolver in one hand and a drawn cutlass in the other, he instantly found himself confronted by a tall Arab armed with a curved sword. The man made a wild slash, his keen blade whistling within a couple of inches of the midshipman’s shoulder, but before he could recover himself Tubby’s revolver spoke, and the man collapsed in a heap. Another assailant came at him with a pistol, and while the boy was still fumbling with his weapon, for it was very dark, there was a spit of flame, a loud report, and he felt a burning sensation in his left arm. He dropped his revolver with the pain, but before his attacker could do further damage, a bluejacket had felled him with the butt of a rifle.

It was a ghastly business, for the Arabs were desperate, and the British had their work cut out. The sharp reports of rifles and revolvers, the dull thudding of falling blades, the shouts of the sailors, and the wild yells of the enemy, converted the peaceful night into a seething pandemonium of sound. But it could not last for very long, for at last only three Arabs remained, and these, fighting desperately, had been driven into a corner.

“Ask ’em if they’ll surrender,” panted Thompson. “Tell ’em they won’t be killed.”

Tubby did so, and the men dropped their weapons with a clatter. It was the last thing he remembered, for, overcome by the pain of his wound, he suddenly collapsed in a heap on the deck.

Thompson sprang forward to his assistance. “What’s the matter, Plantagenet?” he asked, not knowing the boy was wounded.

But Tubby had fainted.

. . . . . .

The next day the captured dhow, which was found to have on board 2500 rifles and many thousands of rounds of ammunition, met H.M.S. Clytia. The wounded, for by some miraculous chance none of the boat’s crew had been killed, were transferred to the ship, and Tubby, who was only slightly wounded, at once found himself a regular hero, and the subject of envy from all his messmates. He pretended to hate this notoriety, especially when the captain sent for and congratulated him personally, but his cup of happiness was not yet full.

About six months later, when the ship was at Colombo, Tubby was again ushered into his commanding officer’s presence.

“Mr. Plantagenet,” said the captain, “I have been directed by My Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to inform you that your name has been noted for early promotion to the rank of lieutenant on your passing the necessary examinations.” He looked up with a twinkle in his eye to see how the boy took it.

“Sir!” gasped the midshipman, hardly able to believe his ears.

The captain handed him the paper he had been reading. “Read it yourself,” he said.

Tubby stared at the typewritten sheets in amazement. He had had no inkling of this. He, Arthur Geoffrey Plantagenet—oh, really it was too much. He burst out into a delighted chuckle.

“Pirates!” laughed the mate. “Of course there are. Why d’you ask?”

“I was reading in a book this afternoon that there were no such things nowadays,” replied the boy. “But tell me,” he queried anxiously, “do they still kill people, and make them walk the plank, and all that sort of thing?”

“Don’t think they make ’em walk the plank,” answered the mate, cutting himself another slice of bread. “But nearly every Chinese fisherman is a pirate at heart, and some of ’em ’ud think nothing of attacking a ship if they had half a chance.”

“Do they come out to sea, then?” asked Jim excitedly, for the subject fascinated him.

“No, there are too many gunboats and cruisers knocking about, but if a junk full of Chinamen came across a defenceless ship they’d attack her all right, and kill every soul on board if they resisted. They’re born thieves when there’s any loot to be had—aren’t they, sir?” he asked, turning to the captain.

“Aye, that they are,” agreed Captain McCaul. “I’ve heard of a good many cases where they’ve done it.”

“Is that why we’ve got those rifles on board, then?” asked Jim, who remembered having seen half-a-dozen weapons in a rack in the chartroom.

The mate and skipper nodded together.

The three of them, Captain McCaul, Mr. Dowell, the mate, and Jim McCaul, the captain’s son, were sitting at supper in the saloon of the steamer Hoi-Hau, now steaming up the Yellow Sea on her way from Shanghai to the North China ports with a general cargo.

The Hoi-Hau was rather an old tub, and though his owners had offered Captain McCaul the command of one of their larger vessels, the gruff old Scotsman had preferred to remain where he was. His wife and family lived in Shanghai, and as the ship was engaged in the North China trade, he saw more of his home than if he were in command of a passenger boat.

Jim McCaul, his eldest son, a boy of fifteen, was at school at Shanghai, and with the idea of giving him a change the skipper frequently took him to sea when the holidays came round.

The boy naturally looked upon his occasional sea trips as a great treat, for besides giving him the opportunity of seeing all sorts of strange places, Mr. Dowell took a great interest in him, and it was really due to the officer’s coaching that Jim had become quite a good seaman.

Supper was soon over, and, accompanied by his son, Captain McCaul left the saloon and clambered up on to the bridge. The sun had set, and overhead the stars were beginning to twinkle in the sky, while there was hardly a breath of wind to mar the smooth surface of the sea.

“By George!” exclaimed Jim, “it’s a ripping night!”

“Don’t know so much about that,” growled the skipper, sniffing the air. “I’d rather have a little breeze. With calm weather like this we may find ourselves in for a fog off the Shantung Promontory. What d’you think about it, Martin?” he asked the second mate, who happened to be on watch.

“Don’t like it at all, sir,” replied that officer.

The captain grunted.

“Well,” he said, “we ought to be rounding the Promontory at about three o’clock to-morrow morning. I’ll turn in now, as I shall be on deck at midnight. Call me at once if it comes on thick.”

McCaul, accompanied by Jim, left the bridge.

“Good night, my son,” he said, halting outside his cabin by the charthouse. “To-morrow I’ll take you for a run at Chifu. I’ve to go ashore to see the agents.”

“That’ll be grand,” said Jim, pleased at the idea. “Good night, father.”

The skipper disappeared into his cabin, and Jim went below and turned in. For an hour he lay reading, but then his weariness overcame him, and blowing out his candle he fell asleep with the regular throb of the propeller sounding in his ears.

The captain’s prophecy about fog turned out to be correct, for shortly after he went on deck at midnight, the clear horizon ahead of the ship became blotted out. By one o’clock the stars were barely visible through the pall overhead, while half an hour later it was thick fog.

The skipper accordingly eased the engines until the vessel was travelling at six knots, and began pulling the syren lanyard every two minutes in making the prescribed fog signal.

The hoarse braying of the powerful instrument woke all the sleepers, but Jim felt too lazy to get up, and after getting used to the dismal sound, rolled over and fell off to sleep again.

Soon afterwards, Dowell, clad in a greatcoat over his pyjamas, went up on to the bridge.

“Hullo,” said the captain. “What’s brought you up here?”

“Syren kept me awake, sir,” the mate explained, “and I came up to see if you wanted any soundings taken.”

“Thanks. I think you’d better get the machine going,” said the skipper.

Dowell went aft to the poop with two of the Chinese crew, and before long the wire of the sounding machine was released, and the lead descended to the bottom. He noticed that it took a much shorter time than it should have, for the ship ought to have been in sixty fathoms, and winding up the wire as fast as he could, he anxiously compared the glass tube with the graduated scale. To his horror the depth was no more than seventeen fathoms!

He began to run forward to report the fact to the bridge, for it was quite obvious that the ship was too near the shore, but hardly had he taken two steps when the vessel gave a quivering shudder, and he could feel her grinding and bumping over some object far below the waterline.

Presently the engines stopped with a jar, and all movement ceased. The ship had struck a ledge of submerged rock, and was fast ashore.

Dowell, with the second mate and Jim, the two latter having been awakened by the shock, all arrived on the bridge at much the same moment, while the native crew, terrified out of their senses, had turned out of the forecastle, and were clustered on deck chattering loudly.

“What’s happened, sir?” asked Dowell breathlessly, although he well knew what the answer would be.

“We’re ashore,” replied the captain. “You’d better get the boats turned out, provisioned, and ready for lowering, Martin,” he went on, addressing the second mate. “Go round with the chief engineer and see what damage has been done, and then report to me.”

The boats were turned out and provisioned, and presently Parton, the chief engineer, came on to the bridge to make his report.

“Well, captain,” he said, “I don’t think there’s much damage.”

The skipper heaved a deep sigh of relief.

“From what I can see she’s leakin’ a bit under number one and two holds, but the pumps are keeping the flow down quite easily.”

“Thank goodness for that!” ejaculated McCaul. “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t float off at high water, then?”

The fog was still very thick, but soon after daylight, when the effect of the morning sun began to make itself felt, the outline of land became visible, and when at length the mist had completely dispersed it could be seen that the steamer was ashore on a ledge of rock within a stone’s throw of the coast.

To the right, the shore was one uninterrupted line of cliff, but a mile or so to the left of where the vessel lay, these abrupt slopes gave way to a shallow, sandy bay in which were anchored several Chinese junks.

At the head of the bay was a straggling native village, and on looking at it through his glasses the captain could see the inhabitants clustered on the beach gazing with obvious astonishment at the stranded steamer.

An hour passed without incident, the pumps managing to keep down the flow of water, but towards eight o’clock the nearest junk weighed her anchor, and with her brown sails bellying out in the breeze drew near the Hoi-Hau.

She approached rapidly, and when within a hundred yards of the steamer hove to. Soon afterwards a native sampan put off from her side, and came to the steamer, while a big, dark-skinned Chinaman, clad in loose blue coat and trousers, clambered up the rope ladder, and appeared on deck.

“Steamer makee go ashore, cap’n,” he remarked in pidgin English. “Velly much damage, wanchee help, eh?”

“No, thanks,” answered McCaul. “Ship no b’long damage. Can get off at high water.”

“Have got plentee coolie makee help,” repeated the visitor. “Plentee stlong coolie.”

“No wanchee,” repeated the skipper, who did not like the look of the man. “No wanchee, savvy?”

“All light,” said the Chinaman, with an evil grin. “S’pose you wanchee coolie, I bling.”

The visitor descended to his sampan, and returned to the junk, which presently weighed her anchor and returned towards the neighbouring village.

“Those fellows are up to no good, sir,” observed Dowell. “That chap had a revolver under his coat, I saw the bulge it made. And look,” he continued, pointing towards the village, “something’s evidently in the wind; you don’t see Chinamen crowding together like that for nothing. I expect that fellow came aboard to have a look round, and now he’s gone back to tell the others how many of us there are. His talk about coolies was only a blind.”

“Well, I hope not,” answered the captain. “He’ll have seen there are only six Europeans aboard, counting Jim here. We can’t trust our native crew to fight.”

“What d’you propose to do, sir, if they do attack?” asked the mate.

“Prevent ’em boarding as long as possible, and then if they do get aboard, we’d better barricade ourselves under the poop. There are scuttles in the saloon there, and we can fire through them on to the deck.”

An hour later three of the native craft anchored off the village hoisted their sails, and after weighing their anchors came towards the steamer. One of them, filled with brown-skinned men, circled round, lowered her sails, and secured to the steamer’s side. Immediately she did so, the man who had been aboard before, followed by several others, began to climb the ladder.

This was the last thing Captain McCaul wanted, and going to the top of the ladder he waited till the first man’s head appeared.

“No wanchee,” he said. “Wilo”—go away—“no wanchee coolie!”

The man, however, persisted in trying to come aboard, and not liking the look of affairs the captain pushed him backwards, intending to force him down the ladder.

The Chinaman, however, slipped, and, tumbling backwards with a yell, suddenly disappeared from view, sweeping several of his friends off the ladder as he fell. They all descended with a crash on to the deck of the junk, the other occupants of which gave a series of unearthly howls as the human avalanche descended.

At this moment the mate put his head over the side of the ship to enjoy the fun, but a second later he drew it back in haste, for a shot rang out, and a bullet whistled close by his head.

Within a second or two an irregular volley broke out from the other junks. The enemy were armed with modern weapons.

The shots were ill-aimed, for though several bullets struck the superstructure close to where the officers and Jim stood, the greater number pinged harmlessly through the air overhead.

At the first discharge, the Chinese crew of the steamer fled in terror, and shut themselves up in the forecastle, leaving the six Europeans alone to defend the ship.

“They mean business!” shouted the captain, dashing to the chartroom and seizing a rifle. “Cut the ladder adrift, someone!”

The mate whipped out a knife and sawed at the rope lashing, but the blade was blunt and the rope tough, and before he was half-way through one strand, a yellow face, with a long, evil-looking knife between its teeth, appeared at the ladder top.

But the stroke never came, for the rope suddenly parted with a crack, and the man disappeared backwards.

There was no time for further talking, for the enemy had now opened a furious fire, while the Europeans, having armed themselves with rifles, were lying on the deck emptying their magazines at their assailants. They succeeded in dropping a good many, but the defenders were outnumbered by more than twenty to one.

The second mate suddenly sat up with a muttered word.

“They’ve got me, the devils!” he remarked, clenching his teeth with pain. “Lucky it’s only through the left arm, so I can still use a rifle.”

He bandaged the injured member with his handkerchief and calmly went on shooting. But the enemy’s fire was becoming more accurate, and at last a bullet went through the mate’s cap and sent it flying.

“We must take cover!” exclaimed the captain, noticing what had happened. “Down on the upper deck, everyone, and take shelter behind the bulwarks!”

They got up one by one and dashed down the ladder leading to the deck, with the bullets flying round them like hail, but they all succeeded in reaching their haven of refuge without being hit.

Once behind the bulwarks they were comparatively safe, for no bullet could penetrate the stout steel, and they only had to expose their heads to fire.

The fight went on for a quarter of an hour without any advantage to either side, when suddenly Jim, happening to glance round, saw a blue-clad figure with a rifle in its hand slinking along underneath the bridge.

The boy wheeled in an instant, brought the weapon to his shoulder, and fired. The shot went wide, but it served its purpose, for the man vanished.

“They’ve boarded us forward, father!” he exclaimed.

As if to prove the truth of his statement, two more pirates suddenly appeared in the direction he pointed out.

“We shall have to barricade ourselves aft,” ejaculated the captain to the others. “Come on, there’s no time to lose!”

No sooner said than done. Within two minutes the defenders had entered the saloon, and after barricading the door with such movable furniture as they could find, they took up their positions with their rifle muzzles pointing through the portholes opening out on to the deck.

For some time nothing happened, and Jim’s eyes grew tired from the glare of the strong sunlight outside. He waited, however, with rifle ready, and at last the head and shoulders of a pirate appeared round the corner of the superstructure.

He watched intently, and was just about to fire, when there came a wild yell, and fully twenty pirates came running along the superstructure deck.

“Bang—bang! Bang, bang, bang!” went the rifles, and several of the blue figures fell headlong. But some of them reached the deck untouched, and taking up a position behind the hatchway coaming, opened a heavy fire.

Their bullets struck the steel bulkhead with a series of loud clangs, while Jim at his porthole had a narrow escape, a bullet whistling past his cheek and shattering a mirror the other end of the saloon. It rather unnerved him, but still he went on loading and firing, loading and firing, like a veteran.

Several more of the enemy had been hit, but before long the second engineer dropped his weapon with a clatter and clutched at his right shoulder, through which a bullet had passed.

His place at the porthole was taken by the second mate, who, though wounded, could use his rifle, and while the captain bandaged the engineer, the firing continued.

The pirates now tried rushing towards the bulkhead, but the defenders’ steady, accurate fire upset their calculations, and time after time they were driven back with loss.

For another hour nothing further happened, and though wild yelling could be heard in the fore part of the ship, there was no more firing.

“I expect they’re trying to loot the foremost hold, sir,” remarked Dowell. “They’ll have a tough job, though,” he remarked, with a grin. “All the cargo’s in big cases, and they won’t shift them in a hurry.”

The captain was just about to reply, when Jim, who happened to be taking a breath of fresh air at one of the portholes in the ship’s side, suddenly gave a yell of delight.

“What’s the matter?” asked his father.

“There’s a ship out at sea,” exclaimed the boy excitedly.

They all crowded round and gazed in the direction in which he pointed, and there, sure enough, was a small white vessel steering a course to round the point of land some distance astern of the steamer.

So far the Chinese had been too intent upon their loot to notice her, for there were no signs of movement on the part of the junks.

“I wonder if she’ll spot us?” queried the skipper anxiously. “Can’t we think of something to attract her attention?”

They all looked at each other anxiously, for this was a difficulty they had not considered.

But Jim came to the rescue.

“Father!” he said suddenly, “from her colour I believe she’s a man-of-war. Why shouldn’t we signal to her?”

The captain looked at his son.

“But how d’you propose to do it?” he asked.

“Signal to ’em by the Morse code,” said Jim.

No sooner said than done. Round the saloon were the cabins of several of the officers, and going to all of them in turn Jim purloined all the walking sticks he could lay his hands upon. He found eight in all, and lashing them together, succeeded in forming a fairly stout pole about ten feet in length. Then, tearing a large piece off a white tablecloth, he secured it to one end, and going to one of the portholes thrust his improvised flag through it, and began to wave it to and fro in a series of longs and shorts.

it went, spelling out the word HELP time after time.

But the Chinese had spotted the flag, and before Jim had been at work for two minutes he heard wild yells, and an instant later the rifles of his comrades were once more hard at work.

H.M. Sloop Lucifer was proceeding towards the Shantung Promontory at a steady twelve knots.

On her bridge the lieutenant on watch leant listlessly against a stanchion, slowly sweeping his telescope from side to side as he gazed through it at the land on the port bow. He was doing it more from pure force of habit than anything else, but he suddenly gave vent to a low exclamation, and, bracing himself up, held his glass perfectly steady.

“Great Cæsar’s ghost!” he remarked to himself, “there’s a steamer ashore there with some junks alongside her, and someone’s waving something white from one of her ports. Short short short short, short, short long short short, short long long short,” he read out. “Great Scott!” he exclaimed, “the fellow’s spelling out HELP!”

He left his position and went amidships, and, leaning over the bridge, gave an order to the man at the wheel below.

“Starboard, three points!”

The helmsman put the wheel over, and while the Lucifer swung round until her bows were pointing directly towards the stranded vessel, a messenger was sent to the commander to inform him of what had been sighted, and, before a minute had passed, he was on the bridge gazing intently at the stranded ship through his binoculars.

“It’s my opinion,” he remarked at length, and seeing the white flag waving to and fro, “that the Chinamen from those junks are giving the fellows on board that steamer a pretty rotten time. She probably ran ashore in that fog early this morning, and they’re looting her.”

He walked across to the engine-room telegraph, and jammed it on to “Full Speed.”

“Travers,” he resumed, turning to the officer of the watch, “get a gun’s crew up and load one of the foremost 4-inch guns.”

The lieutenant saluted, and a few minutes later the quickfirer had been cleared away, and its lean muzzle was pointing in the direction of the steamer.

It was not until the sloop was within a couple of miles of the wreck that the pirates noticed her, but the minute they did so they were flung into a state of frantic confusion, for they could be seen tumbling over each other in their haste as they clambered down the sides of the steamer and aboard their junks.

By the time the Lucifer was within half a mile the clumsy native craft had hoisted their sails and were speeding back towards the village.

The commander slowed his engines, and at the same moment hailed the officer on the forecastle. The gun muzzle quivered until it was pointing full at the leading junk, now well clear of the Hoi-Hau, and a second later there was a sharp report, a sheet of blinding flame, and a four-inch shell screeched its way through the air.

. . . . . .

Aboard the Hoi-Hau things had not been progressing very satisfactorily.

Again and again the Chinese had attacked and had been repulsed, but finally the sheer weight of numbers had told, and when at last the ammunition of the defenders had dwindled to an alarming degree, the pirates had succeeded in reaching the bulkhead.

Once in this position, the British could not fire without exposing themselves, and the enemy began to beat down the door to get at those inside.

Captain McCaul and his officers had made up their minds for the worst, when Jim suddenly stopped waving his flag.

“Hurrah!” he yelled. “She’s coming this way!”

The welcome announcement put new heart into the defenders and they nerved themselves for a desperate resistance, for the entry of the Chinese was now a matter of minutes.

A short time later events took quite an unexpected turn. The enemy, seeing the approaching man-of-war for the first time, suddenly abandoned the attack and retreated to their junks, while the defenders, too thankful to speak, made their way out of the saloon and went on deck.

Closer and closer came the little sloop, until, when the junks were all clear of the steamer and had hoisted their sails, she opened fire. The first shell struck up the water a hundred yards short of the leading junk, and flew off into the air with a savage whine.

The pirates redoubled their efforts to escape, shrieking and yelling as they plied the sweeps to assist the sails. But it was too late, and their efforts were in vain, for the four-inch gun barked

again, and this time the projectile hit the leading junk full in the stern.

Jim had a fleeting glimpse of a sheet of flame; he saw the masts of the native craft falling, whilst masses of debris were flung skywards by the force of the powerful explosive.

When the smoke cleared away the junk was barely recognisable, for she lay low in the water like a derelict, and already the flames were licking at her battered timbers.

Another sharp report came from the sloop, and this time the shot pitched into the water under the bows of a second enemy.

The Chinese then realised that the game was up, for, lowering the sails, most of them jumped overboard and began to swim for the shore, while before very long the Lucifer’s boats, filled with armed bluejackets, were taking possession of the abandoned craft.

Soon afterwards the commander of the sloop came aboard the Hoi-Hau.

“Good morning, captain,” he said, advancing towards McCaul, and glancing round the decks in astonishment. “You seem to have been having a pretty bad time.”

“If you hadn’t come,” said the skipper gratefully, wringing his visitor’s hand, “they’d have broken down the door and murdered the lot of us.”

“By the way,” remarked the commander, “Who was that fellow of yours making signals to us?”

“Here he is,” replied McCaul, pushing Jim forward. “He’s my son.”

“It’s lucky you made that signal, youngster,” said the naval officer. “We’d spotted you all right, but if you hadn’t waved your flag we might have been too late. Where did you learn your Morse, by the way?”

“I’m a Scout, sir,” Jim explained, blushing furiously.

“Just as well you are, my boy,” said the officer with a twinkle in his eye. “You ought to be proud of your son, captain,” he resumed, turning to McCaul.

“Proud!” laughed the skipper. “Proud! Of course I am!”

. . . . . .

When the tide rose, the Hoi-Hau floated off the rocks with but little damage, and before long was once more on her voyage to Chifu.

The bluejackets of the sloop succeeded in capturing the greater number of the pirates, and it was subsequently found that they belonged to a notorious band who had preyed on the defenceless trading junks for some time past.

Jim, as may well be imagined, has never forgotten his one and only brush with pirates.

H.M. Torpedo-boat Number 60 was pursuing her way northward along the western coast of Cape Colony at a steady ten knots. As a matter of fact the exact course was N.N.W., and this took the little craft along parallel to the coast and some fifteen miles off it, while Robben Island, thirty miles to the northward of Capetown, had been abeam at noon, so the ship was well on her way up the coast in the direction of Cape Castle.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with a clear blue sky, unflecked by the least vestige of cloud, while the sun overhead converted the sea into one vast expanse of shimmering light. There was a gentle breeze from the south-east, but it was not sufficient to raise a sea, and the great ocean was only disturbed by a slight swell rolling in from the westward, over which the little torpedo-boat rode with an easy movement.

It was 1901, when the South African War was at its height and the whole of Cape Colony and Natal was one great military camp. The daily arrival of transports had come to be looked upon as a mere matter of routine, for the war had been going on for eighteen months. The Navy, too, was not idle, for many men belonging to the Cape of Good Hope Squadron had been at the front with their guns, fighting side by side with their soldier comrades, while the coasts of Cape Colony and Natal had also to be patrolled.

There were at that time comparatively few ships on the Cape station, and as many hundreds of miles of coast had to be covered, all the torpedo-boats in reserve at the naval base at Simonstown had been requisitioned for this service, and though hardly suitable for the task, they performed their work with a thoroughness which left nothing to be desired. Through lack of lieutenants the greater number of them were commanded by gunners, and No. 60, the little vessel with which we are concerned, was in charge of Mr. Samuel Hyne, a warrant officer of this rank.

Small as she was, he was proud of her, and though her 65 tons displacement, her 127½ feet of length, her 15 men, and her armament of four 14-inch torpedo tubes, besides one three-pounder Hotchkiss and a solitary 45-inch maxim, made her a very puny and insignificant little craft, she was, in Hyne’s eyes, quite the smartest thing afloat flying the White Ensign. He was proud of her, for his pennant flew at her masthead, and though in 1886, when she first saw the light of day, she could do her 20½ knots with her single screw, and now could steam no more than, as he himself would call it, “eighteen and a kick,” he revelled, like many others, in the delights of his first independent command.

Close alongside the after torpedo tubes, and near the hatch leading to the stuffy wardroom, the skipper sat on a camp stool having a friendly yarn with the chief engine-room artificer, Watson, who, though only a chief petty officer, was the engineer of the ship. It was hardly possible to tell the chief E.R.A. from his commanding officer, for both were clad in nothing but trousers and singlets open at the neck. It was noticeable, though, that the engineer never omitted the “Sir” when addressing his senior, even though the two men were close friends.

“It’s all very well for you to say I’m lucky to have this job,” the gunner was saying. “I dare say I am, but lucky or not, I’d far sooner have had a chance of getting to the front!”

“Yes,” nodded the chief E.R.A., reaching for his tobacco pouch, “but if you ’ad, sir, maybe you’d a got a bullet through you, same as Mister McFiggis, o’ the Doris, did up at Graspan. ’E was full o’ beans when ’e left the ship, but ’e nearly pegged out in ’orspital. Lor’ bless me ’eart an’ soul, ’e didn’t want no more soldierin’. Lor’ lumme, no!”

“I wouldn’t mind running the risk of that,” answered Hyne, “if only I had the chance of doing something. They’ll get medals and bars, and distinguished service orders, and goodness only knows what, and I’m busted if we’ll get so much as a bloomin’ ‘thank you’ for patrolling this blessed coast. Not so much as a thank you,” he reiterated mournfully, glancing at the dull purple serrated edge of the mountains away on the starboard beam. “I’m sick of it all!”

“Well, it’s not your fault, sir,” went on the chief E.R.A. “You can’t do more’n obey your orders, an’ if you don’t get your chance you don’t, and that’s all about it.”

The gunner laughed, and both men relapsed into a silence which was only broken by the gentle ripple of the water as the torpedo-boat forced her way through it.

The afternoon wore on, and at four o’clock Hyne went forward to relieve the coxswain on watch. The orders were turned over, and the petty officer went aft to his little cupboard of a mess, and was soon busy with his tea, which meal consisted of stale bread, fried eggs of doubtful origin, and well-stewed navy tea with no milk, for in those days condensed milk was not served out by a paternal Government.

It was about one bell in the first dog-watch (4.30 p.m.) that the gunner, who was gazing abstractedly at the distant land, felt a sudden tremor from the after part of the ship. At first he paid no attention to it, for the little ship always vibrated badly, but when there came an awful bump, followed by a jarring grind, and then a fearful clatter from the neighbourhood of the engine-room, he realised something serious had happened, and commenced to run aft.

He was just in time to see the chief E.R.A. disappear down the engine-room hatch like a shot rabbit, while the coxswain, with an anxious face, was climbing up the ladder from his mess.

“What’s happened?” cried Hyne.

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” answered Naylor, the coxswain. “Me an’ th’ chief was sittin’ in th’ mess when we ’ears a bump an’ then a grindin’, an’ then th’ engines start ’eavin’ round fit ter bust!”

Descending the greasy ladder, the gunner went below into the engine-room. Seeing a group of perspiring men in the after part of the little compartment, he went up to them.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“Shaft’s gone clean in half, sir,” said Watson, looking up.

“Lord help us!” gasped the skipper. “Is it possible to do anything to it?”

“No, sir,” replied Watson, wiping his perspiring face with a bit of dirty oily waste until it was streaked with black. “It’s a proper dockyard job I’m afraid, it’s gone clean across!”

“Are we making any water?”

“Don’t think so, sir,” said the other. “If we had a’ been it ’ud found its way for’ard by this time. It’ll have strained the stern gland a bit, but the broken part of the shaft’s still there, and I expect I can keep the flow under with the ejectors.”

“I hope you can,” remarked Hyne, “but let’s go aft and have a look.”

They left the engine-room, and going aft along the upper deck visited all the stern compartments in turn.

“There’s no damage to speak of,” said Watson, when the survey was completed. “Th’ gland’s weeping a bit more’n usual, an’ one or two rivet heads are sheared off an’ one or two plates a bit buckled. We can keep the water under all right, an’ I’ll get th’ ejectors workin’ at once. But we can’t steam another inch, of course.”

He vanished below, and while he set the pumps to work Hyne thought over the situation. He was placed in a most unenviable position, for No. 60, having, like the majority of the older torpedo-boats, only one screw, was absolutely helpless with her tail shaft fractured. Even if they had a spare length of shafting it could not be placed in position. He grew pale as he thought of what might happen. The mighty Agulhas current would carry the disabled ship to the northward, and though he had food and water sufficient for perhaps a week’s consumption if he put the men on half rations, affairs still looked pretty desperate, unless some passing steamer gave the torpedo-boat a tow into harbour. She was, however, out of the track of steamers running to Capetown, and her size did not make her a very conspicuous object.

The one small dinghy the little vessel carried would not accommodate more than eight of her men at the very outside, and if the ship had to be abandoned the other men would have to be towed astern in life-buoys, while their progress would naturally be slow, and their chance of reaching the coast, twenty miles distant, doubtful in the extreme. Even allowing that it was possible, the sea was infested with sharks, so Hyne dismissed the idea as impossible almost as soon as he thought of it.

Going aft he was met by the coxswain.

“Get the ship’s company aft, Naylor,” he ordered.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Soon afterwards the little crew had been collected, and, stepping forward, the petty officer reported, “Ship’s company present, sir,” in his best battleship manner.

“Men,” began Hyne, getting on to the after torpedo tube, “I’ve not brought you up here to spin a long yarn. You all know what’s happened, and that we’re practically helpless twenty miles from land, and out of the track of shipping. We’ve got three days’ grub on board, say four with what we’ve got in the wardroom, so, in case of accidents, we’ll pool the lot and put everyone on half whack!

“It’s a poor look out, I don’t mind telling you,” he went on to say, “but still we’ve a chance. The weather’s fine, and though we can’t steam, we can sail....

“Yes,” he said, noticing that the men were looking at each other in surprise, “I daresay sailing a torpedo-boat sounds strange, but it’s got to be done! Saldanha Bay’s the best place to make for, it’s about thirty miles nor’-east of us, and as the wind’s freshening every minute and going round to the southward, we’ll have it on the starboard quarter. We must buckle to, and rig up a couple of extra masts—bearing out spars’ll do—and we must cut up every bit o’ canvas in the ship, and make it into sails. Four hours at the outside must see us under way, and though we shan’t go very fast, I hope we’ll make Saldanha Bay some time to-morrow. That’s all I’ve got to say, and now I want you to buckle to and rig up the masts and make the sails.”

The men cheered as he dismissed them, and before long they were hard at work furling the awnings while the storerooms were burgled for every inch of canvas they contained. Presently those of the men who could use a sail-maker’s palm and needle were busy sewing the lengths together, while others placed and stayed the spars to serve as main and mizzen masts, for the torpedo-boat only carried one stumpy mast forward.

By eight o’clock, when the sun sank to rest beneath the western horizon in a blaze of scarlet and gold, everything was ready except the sails.

“Come on, lads! Bear a hand!” shouted Hyne cheerfully to encourage the men sewing, and noting with satisfaction that the breeze from the southward was momentarily freshening. “We must get sail on her as soon as we can!” The bluejackets worked with a will, and half an hour later a small jib and triangular trysail were set on the foremast. They were anything but well cut or shapely, for they had been made out of the awning, but still they served their purpose, for as soon as they were hoisted the wind bellied them out, and the little vessel heeled over and began to move through the water.

“Steer east-nor’-east!” said Hyne to the coxswain, as the latter ran forward to take the wheel, and, as the rudder went over, the skipper saw with satisfaction that the ship answered her helm.

By nine o’clock it was pitch dark, and the stars had begun to twinkle in the dark blue of the sky overhead, and soon afterwards the other sails were ready, and were set on the spars serving as main and mizzen masts. The torpedo-boat slipped still faster through the water, until she was making about four knots, while the men, highly satisfied with their work, had their frugal supper of stale bread and bully beef.

The hours dragged wearily by, but by midnight the breeze had developed into a strong wind, which still blew from the same direction. The sea, however, had got up, and the little ship wallowed

heavily as she crawled along at her leisurely gait, but as the stars still shone it did not appear as if the weather was going to get any worse. The gunner and coxswain spent the whole night on deck, and at five o’clock the next morning the first signs of dawn appeared over a serrated band of obscurity on the horizon which could only be land. Hyne, exhausted as he was, felt quite cheerful when he saw it, and when daylight came he saw, to his inexpressible relief, that the entrance to Saldanha Bay was in sight a short distance to the northward.

Two hours later the crippled torpedo-boat crawled into the harbour, and passing several steamers and sailing craft at anchor, whose crews broke into ironical cheers as she crept by, finally dropped her anchor off the settlement.

“Well, sir,” remarked the chief E.R.A. to Hyne, as the latter went aft towards the wardroom hatch, “you’ve had your chance all right, if you’ll excuse my saying so, sir, and I reckon the Admiral’ll have something nice to say to you when we get back to Simonstown.”

“Nice!” sniffed Hyne. “Nice indeed! I expect he’ll order me to be court-martialled on the spot because the shaft broke. Endangering one of His Majesty’s ships, and all the rest of it!”

“I ’ope not!” declared Watson, dropping his h’s in his nervousness. “Hindeed! I ’ope not!”

“Well, we’ll see,” said the gunner, going down the ladder; “but meanwhile I’m going to send a wire reporting what has happened.”

. . . . . .

A week later H.M. Torpedo-boat No. 60 arrived at Simonstown behind the second-class cruiser which had been sent to Saldanha Bay to tow her back. The news of her vicissitudes was already common property, and as she passed by, the men-of-war on her way to the dockyard, a string of coloured bunting crept to the masthead of the flagship and fluttered out in the breeze. An instant later the sides and rigging of the war vessels were black with men, and as No. 60 passed cheer after cheer rang out across the water.

“What the deuce do they want to make all that shindy about?” growled Hyne, who, if the truth must be told, felt rather relieved at the reception.

“I expects you’ll find out orl rite when yer reports yer arrival to the Admiral, sir,” murmured the coxswain.

An hour later the gunner was reporting his arrival to the Admiral on board the flagship. The Commander-in-Chief got up from the table at which he was writing.

“I’m glad to see you back, Mr. Hyne,” he said graciously, shaking hands. “I’m glad you came out of it all right. Let me hear all about it; your wire didn’t give me much news beyond the fact that you’d broken down and had ... er, sailed your torpedo-boat into Saldanha Bay.”

The story was soon told, and when the narrative was complete the Admiral rose from his chair.

“Mr. Hyne,” he said, “I congratulate you. I knew when I appointed you to No. 60 you’d do well, but I never expected this. I shall forward a report of your conduct to the Admiralty.”

“Thank you, sir!” gasped the astonished Hyne, his face turning the colour of a beet.

“And,” continued the Commander-in-Chief, “I shall be very pleased if you will come and dine at Admiralty House to-night. My wife will be interested in your story, and I’m afraid you’ll have to tell it all over again.”

. . . . . .

Six weeks later Hyne was sitting on the deck of his little command, which was on the torpedo-boat slip in the dockyard, after having been fitted with a new screw shaft. It was a hot day, and he was half dozing in his chair with his pipe between his teeth, when he was roused by the sound of shouting from forward. Presently the signalman came running aft with a signal pad in his hand.

“What’s all the noise about forward?—tell ’em to stop it at once,” said Hyne.

“Signal, sir,” said the man, “just come from the flagship. Reads ‘Admiralty informs me that Mr. Samuel Hyne, gunner, has been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. I am sure that all officers and men under my command will congratulate this officer on his well-merited promotion.’”

“Good Lord!” gasped the newly-made lieutenant, hardly able to believe his ears. “Are you quite certain it is all right? Perhaps someone’s pulling my leg.”

“No, sir, they ain’t,” declared the signalman, breaking into a grin, “an’ th’ signal goes on to say: ‘Chief Engine-room Artificer Jeremiah Watson is advanced to the rank of Artificer Engineer!’”

“What’s that?” said a voice, as the chief E.R.A.’s head appeared on deck. “Let’s have a look. Are you sure it ain’t a ’oax?”

“’Oax, ’oax!” exclaimed the man; “beggin’ yer pardon, sir, the Admiral ain’t goin’ ter pull yer leg!”

He handed the signal pad across as he spoke.

“It’s all right,” said Hyne breathlessly. “I congratulate you, Mr. Watson.”

“Same here, Lieutenant Hyne,” said the other. “Didn’t I say, sir, as how they wouldn’t forget you? Aren’t you a jolly sight better off than Mister McFiggis, who got a bullet through ’im at Graspan?... Lor’ save us, though!” he added, “I didn’t know as I ’ad done anythink!”

“No, but I did, though,” said the new lieutenant, as he went below to figure out how much it would cost him to send a lengthy cable home to his wife in England.

“Well, Mister Mate,” remarked Captain Sims, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, “the noon sights give her an average of ten and a half knots since noon yesterday. Pretty good goin’!”

“Good!” replied the mate. “I should think it was, sir! This old hooker isn’t exactly in her childhood.”

The master laughed. “Well,” he said, “I’ll go below and get my dinner, and after that I shall be in my room. I’ve a lot of work to get through.”

The mate nodded and smiled, for he knew well that the captain’s “work” was done lying down on his bunk with both eyes shut, and with an accompaniment of something which sounded suspiciously like snoring.

“Keep her goin’ sou’-sou’-east,” concluded the “old man,” moving down the poop ladder, “and let me know if you sight anything.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said Meryon, as the skipper disappeared.

The steamer Evelyn MacDonald was pursuing her leisurely way southward through the North Atlantic, on a voyage from London to Sydney, via the Cape of Good Hope. She carried a valuable general cargo, and up to the present the voyage had been eminently successful, for no contrary gales or heavy seas had retarded her progress. The vessel, a steam tramp of elderly build and sluggish demeanour, was surpassing herself, for though nine and a half or ten knots was her usual speed, the patent log dial on her taffrail was now registering no less than 10·5.

The weather was certainly beautiful, and, though there was hardly a cloud overhead in the sky to dim the brilliancy of the sun, the welcome breeze, ruffling the surface of the sea until it looked like a vast spread of sapphire-coloured velvet, mitigated the fierce rays from above. Life on board, therefore, even though the ship was only a few degrees north of the equator, was bearable, and even pleasant.

It had gone one bell in the afternoon watch, and the crew had finished their midday meal and were lolling about on the forecastle in various lethargic attitudes. Some were smoking and talking, but others had dropped off to sleep with their pipes between their teeth.

“What I likes about this ’ere ship,” one of them remarked to a friend, “is that we ’ave no bloomin’ dagoes aboard. We’re hall Henglish, leastways British, an’ I reckon there’s precious few other ’ookers flyin’ th’ Red Duster as can say that!”

“That’s so, mate,” replied another seaman, whose red hair had earned for him the inevitable nickname of “Ginger.” “I reckon we’ve struck ile this trip orl rite.”

“’Allo, there’s ’Oratio!” observed the first speaker, as the cook’s boy came out of the galley amidships and flung a bucket of dirty water over the ship’s side.

“’Allo, ’Oratio, me son,” cried Ginger, “’ow are ye gettin’ on dahn there? ’Ow’s th’ ole water spoiler inside?” The “water spoiler,” needless to remark, was the cook himself, Horatio’s immediate superior.

The boy—Horatio Nelson Chivers, to give him his full name—had been signed on as assistant and general bottle-washer to the cook at the last moment before the ship left England. The mate, seeing him loafing round the quay before the Evelyn MacDonald sailed, had taken him on out of pure compassion, rather than with the idea that he would be of any use; and, if the truth must be told, Horatio Nelson was about as scraggy and as weedy a looking individual as it is possible to imagine.

He was an undersized youth of about fifteen—he didn’t know his real age—whose origin was wrapped in the realms of mystery, and though he knew his surname was Chivers and his Christian names, through some freak on the part of his mother and father, were Horatio Nelson, he was quite unacquainted with his parents, and was unaware who they had been, where they had lived, or where he himself had been born. For years he had contrived to make ends meet by selling newspapers in London, a precarious existence which often as not left him without the wherewithal to satisfy his gnawing hunger; but all his spare time was spent down at the docks in the East End, for he loved ships and everything to do with them. He had fully determined to become a sailor, perhaps because he was named after the greatest Admiral the world has ever known, but he had never been more surprised than when the mate of the Evelyn MacDonald, seeing a veritable scarecrow of a boy standing on the jetty close to the ship, asked him if he wanted to sign on.

He jumped at the opportunity with thankfulness in his heart, for he was desperately sick of the great city, and, above all, of endeavouring to sell newspapers to people who did not want them. He longed to be at sea, to see something of the world, and though he would have preferred to enter the Royal Navy, a bird in the hand was worth several in the bush, and he revelled in the idea of having regular meals. It is true that Mr. Meryon had given the boy the chance because he looked so utterly miserable, forlorn and wretched; but though the officer’s feelings had outweighed his judgment, it must be admitted he had never had cause to regret it, for ’Oratio, as he was familiarly called, was the life and soul of the ship, and was as cute and knowing as the day is long.

The youth shook the last few drops out of his bucket and then looked towards the forecastle.

“Cheero, Ginger!” he remarked, familiarly. “’Ow’s yer Rile ’Ighness gettin’ on?”

“’Oo are you callin’ Ginger?” demanded the seaman, not liking the allusion to the colour of his hair. “Ain’t I told yer my name’s Smith? Mister bloomin’ Smith, too, from the likes o’ you?”

“There’s ony one Ginger in this ’ere ship!” retorted Horatio innocently. “’Is Majesty King Ginger—King o’ all th’ Nuts!”

“Ho, hindeed!” snorted the King of the Nuts. “Look ’ere, Mister ’Oratio bloomin’ Nelson Chivers, or whatever yer darned tally is, I don’t stand no sauce from the likes o’ you! I’ve told yer ’afore I’ll ’ave none o’ yer imperence!”

“Won’t yer?” said the boy in mock surprise, making a deep obeisance.

“No, I won’t, yer young shaver, so just you keep a civil tongue in yer ’ead!”

“Orl rite, cully, keep yer ’air on!” drawled Horatio, disappearing into the galley.

“Drat th’ boy,” muttered Smith good-naturedly. “That ’Oratio o’ ourn is a cure, an’ no bloomin’ herror. King o’ th’ Nuts, hindeed!”

“’E’s a cheeky young divil!” agreed one of the other men, pushing down the tobacco in his pipe with a horny forefinger. “’E’s abart th’ bloomin’ limit, takin’ ’im orl round. ’E’s fillin’ art somethin’ wonderful, though,” he added with pride, for they all looked upon Horatio as belonging to them. “D’ye remember th’ wizened little scarecrow ’e was when ’e signed on?”

“Huh!” snorted Ginger. “Fillin’ art! ’E can’t bloomin’ well ’elp ’isself! Just look at th’ amount of scran ’e stows away in that little stummick o’ ’is! ’E’s—— Wot in ’evin’s that?” he suddenly broke off, as something round and hard hit him in the ribs. “S’welp me!” he added an instant later, picking up a potato. “It’s a spud!”

“’Oratio’s bombardin’ yer from th’ galley,” said his companion with a grin.

“I’ll give ’im ’Oratio when I catch ’im,” muttered Smith, leaping to his feet. “’Ere, you young swabtail!” he bellowed, catching sight of the boy with another missile ready to throw. “’Ere, give over chuckin’ them spuds!”

The boy’s reply came promptly, for another potato hurled through the air and hit his enemy fair and square on the shoulder. Ginger instantly dashed to the forecastle ladder with the intention of pursuing and chastising his assailant, but the latter, seeing him coming, had already vanished into the galley like a streak of greased lightning.

Further hostilities were interrupted by the bosun coming forward along the upper deck.

“Come on, lads, time’s up!” he shouted.

Ginger Smith was forced to postpone active operations upon Horatio to a more suitable opportunity, and while the boy sniggered with glee in his galley, the recumbent figures on the forecastle rose, stretched themselves, and were soon told off for their work for the afternoon.

“Gah!” shouted the precocious youth, putting his head out of the galley with a grimace as Smith passed with a paint-pot and brushes. “Look at th’ King o’ th’ Nuts goin’ to paint ’is pallus! Thought ye’d catch me, did yer?” He put his thumb to his nose and extended his fingers.

“You wait, my son!” muttered Smith wrathfully. “I’ll knock seven bells out o’ yer bloomin’ little carcase when I do get ’old o’ yer!”

He marched on aft, with Horatio making faces at him behind his back.

The afternoon wore on, and at about 3 p.m. a black smudge of smoke appeared over the horizon astern. It got larger and larger, spreading up in the clear sky like a mushroom-shaped cloud, until eventually the hull of a ship could be seen looming up in the distance. As yet she was too far off for details to be noticed, but the dense volumes of smoke issuing from her funnels showed that she was travelling fast. She overhauled the Evelyn MacDonald rapidly, and by four o’clock was only four or five miles astern.

The captain had already been called and had come on the poop, and was gazing intently at her through a pair of binoculars.

“She’s a man-of-war, by the look of her,” he remarked to the mate. “Three funnels, so far as I can see, and painted dark grey.”

“She’ll be British,” answered Meryon. “Our men-of-war are that colour. I can’t see any ensign, though. By Jove!” he added in admiration; “she’s going a pretty good lick. Look at her bow wave!”

“She’s altering her course to close us,” observed the skipper, as the approaching vessel yawed lightly to starboard. “Stand by with your signal books and flags. I expect she wants to communicate.”

Soon afterwards the strange cruiser, for such, from her three funnels, she evidently was, was close astern.

“She’s not British!” exclaimed the mate confidently. “We’ve no craft in our navy like that!”

“What in earth is she, then?” demanded the skipper rather testily. “What does a bloomin’ foreigner want to come nosin’ round us for? Hoist the ens’n; perhaps she’ll hoist hers!”

The Red Ensign crept up to the peak, where it streamed out a vivid scarlet patch against the deep blue of the sky. The man-of-war may have noticed it, but if she did she made no sign of having done so, for she still came on at the same speed.

“By Jove!” cried the mate an instant later. “She’s a German!” He had just seen the ensign at the stranger’s gaff, where hitherto it had been hidden in her belching smoke.

“Yes,” returned the skipper, busy with a telescope. “She’s got a signal flying, too. L Q,” he added, picking out the colours of the flags. “Look it out in the book!”

“Heave to!” exclaimed Meryon in absolute astonishment, running his finger down the page and finding the place.

“Heave to!” snorted the skipper incredulously. “Can’t be! Let’s have a look!”

“It’s quite right, sir,” replied the mate, showing him the meaning.

“Heave to!” ejaculated the captain, with rising wrath. “What right has a bloomin’ foreigner to order us to heave to?”

“Don’t know, sir. Perhaps she’s made a mistake,” replied Meryon; but his voice sounded rather apprehensive.

“Mistake or not,” snapped the skipper, “I’m jiggered if I’ll heave to! I’ve never heard such a cursed bit o’ impertinence in my life!” He gazed over the taffrail and shook his fist wrathfully at the oncoming stranger, now barely four hundred yards behind.

Hardly had he done so, when a spit of flame broke out from the forecastle of the man-of-war. There was a loud report, and then, with a savage whine, a projectile hurtled through the air past the steamer and buried itself in the sea a hundred yards away to port.

The skipper glared at the spout of foam with absolute amazement and bewilderment written on his face.

“What the devil does she mean?” he roared, his face whitening with rage. “Firing on us! We’re not at war! I’ve never heard of such a thing!” He had great difficulty in controlling his wrath.

The mate, too, was struck dumb with astonishment, and stared at the cruiser with his mouth wide open. There really was something rather amazing in the idea of a German man-of-war stopping a British merchant ship on the high seas, but there was no mistaking the meaning of her peremptory demand.

“That gun, sir,” he remarked at length, “was meant to make us heave to!”

“I suppose it was, the beastly pirates!” muttered the captain angrily. “Well,” he continued, “it’s no use being sunk!” He wrenched the engine-room telegraph over to “Stop” as he spoke.

Hearing the report of the gun, the officers and men of the steamer were already on deck, gazing at the foreign warship with surprise and astonishment on their faces. The cruiser had now slowed down, and a minute later, when the Evelyn MacDonald had slowed down, the grey man-of-war slid up abreast of her and barely two hundred yards off. The twin propellers churned the water into foam as they went astern at full speed, and then there came the piping of a boatswain’s whistle as a boat was lowered.

The crew of the Evelyn MacDonald were clustered on deck hurling strange curses at the foreigner, while one or two of the more belligerent ones, Horatio, who had armed himself with the cook’s meat chopper, among them, were saying what they proposed to do to the boarding party when they should come on board.

“I’ll catch ’im a slosh on th’ jaw ’e won’t forgit in a ’urry!” piped the boy, feeling the edge of his weapon.

There was no doubt they all meant what they said, and realising that, if they offered resistance, the man-of-war would probably retaliate, Sims sent the mate forward to prevent them doing any mischief.

The cutter presently drew alongside. To the captain’s utter disgust, he was forced to lower a rope ladder, and then an officer, armed with sword and revolver, clambered on deck. He was followed by half a dozen seamen carrying loaded rifles, two of whom promptly made their way to the poop, where they took charge of the wheel, while the other four rounded up the crew of the steamer and made them hold their hands above their heads by threatening them with their weapons.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” thundered the skipper, advancing threateningly on the single foreigner who confronted him.

The officer’s hand slid to his revolver holster, which he unbuttoned ostentatiously.

“This is rank piracy!” bellowed Sims again.

“You do not know that Germany and England are at war?” asked the visitor in excellent English, glancing at the Red Ensign overhead and fingering his weapon.

“What?” snorted Sims, with a sniff of rage.

The foreigner smiled slightly and nodded.

“War? But what’s war been declared about?” asked the captain amazed.

“That is not my affair,” answered the foreigner. “I do my duty without asking why!”

“Why, man,” the Englishman remarked, his amusement almost getting the better of his annoyance, “you’ll have the whole of our navy buzzin’ round your ears in no time!”

“We will fight!” retorted the foreigner with impatience.

“Humph!” muttered the skipper. “The deuce you will! Meanwhile, may I ask what you mean to do with this ship?”

“Our navy has orders to sink and destroy the British fleet, and to capture or burn all merchant ships!”

Sims gasped.

“Yes,” continued the lieutenant grandiloquently. “A prize crew shall be put on board, and she shall be taken to Duala!”

“But I’m not carrying contraband of war!” protested the captain, longing to go for the foreigner with his fists.

“All the English are our enemies!” declared the other. “Come,” he continued rudely, “I am not used to bandy words with a merchant captain. I wish to see your papers, and I must warn you that, if there is any attempt at resistance, my ship will fire on you!”

Sims’s longing to strike out almost got the better of him, but he saw that it was no use arguing any further, so swallowed the insult without replying.

“Come on,” he said gruffly, leading the way to his cabin.

The foreign officer beckoned to one of his men before he disappeared under the poop, and a minute or two later the Red Ensign was hauled down and replaced by the white black-crossed ensign of the German navy.

Seeing it, the anger of the British crew nearly overcame them, and for some moments their insensate rage tempted them to attack their captors. They cursed and swore fluently, but eventually their discretion got the upper hand, for they saw how useless it was to resist.

An hour later the ship had been taken possession of by a prize crew of fifteen men and a warrant officer, under the command of a lieutenant. Having transferred them, the cruiser proceeded on her way, and, threatened by the revolvers and rifles of their gaolers, the unfortunate Englishmen were compelled to go to their posts and work their vessel, steering towards the south-east for her new destination.

This having been done, the captain and officers were locked in their respective cabins, the crew were driven down into the forecastle, while armed sentries pacing the deck effectually prevented any intercommunication.

The Evelyn MacDonald was a prize.

The next morning the ship was still standing to the south-eastward on her course for Duala.

The lieutenant in command was a better-tempered individual than the officer who had first come on board, and intimated to Captain Sims that he and his officers would be permitted to use the saloon for their meals, while they would also be allowed one hour’s exercise on deck in the morning and afternoon. He informed him, however, that any abuse of this privilege would be visited by more rigorous treatment, and that if any attempt were made to capture the vessel, the prisoners would instantly be fired upon. The only members of the crew who were not confined were Horatio and the steward, for they, between them, were responsible for the cooking and serving of all the meals throughout the ship, for captors and prisoners alike. Even they, however, were closely watched, for there was always an armed sentry somewhere near the galley while they were at work.

Horatio went about his labours in a despondent manner, which formed a complete contrast to his cheery disposition of a week before. He had plenty to do, but chafed at the idea of being ordered about by foreigners, and every time he looked at the foreign flag flying at the peak his blood boiled with mingled rage and humiliation. Puny and insignificant as he was, he was British to the core. British blood flowed in his veins, and he seriously thought of attacking the sentries single-handed with his chopper. He even asked the steward’s advice as to how it could best be done, but the older man, realising the utter futility of such an attempt, made him, after great difficulty, promise that he would not try it.

Foiled in his ideas of active measures, the boy then set to work to think of some other way of recapturing the ship. Scheme after scheme was evolved in his busy brain to be cast aside as useless, but suddenly, two days later, an idea, a great and glorious idea, flashed into his mind. He determined to try it.

Captain Sims in his cabin was also thinking out plan after plan to regain possession of the ship, but he gave them all up in turn as hopeless, for arms or ammunition he had none, and he knew well enough that the minute an attack was made the English would be shot down with ruthless indifference.

On the morning of the third day after the capture, he realised that the anxiety and the unusual sedentary life were beginning to make him positively ill. Instead of turning out for breakfast, therefore, he remained in his bunk, and soon afterwards someone came to his cabin door, unlocked it, and announced that breakfast was ready.

“Is that you, Chivers?” he called.

“Yus, sir,” said the boy, opening the door and putting his head in.

“Look here. I’m feeling a bit seedy this mornin’. You might bring my meals in here on a tray, will you?”

“Yus, sir,” said the urchin.

Ten minutes later he returned with a well-laden tray.

“Capten, sir,” he whispered, when he had laid out his master’s breakfast.

“Hallo, sonny! What is it?” asked Sims.

The boy bent his head down until his lips were close to the captain’s ear.

“Please, sir,” he began, “’ave we any—— Yus, sir, quite a fine day!” he suddenly remarked in his ordinary voice, for his sharp ear had heard footsteps outside.

For an instant the skipper was surprised, for he could not guess the meaning of the youth’s manœuvre. Then it suddenly flashed across his mind, and he realised the boy had something important to tell him. They went on talking naturally, until the footsteps died away.

“Now, Chivers,” said Sims softly, “what is it?”

“Please, sir,” whispered the boy, “’ave we any drugs aboard?”

“Drugs? Whatever for?”

“Ter lay art them blighted foreigners, sir!” exclaimed the blood-thirsty Horatio. “Me an’ th’ stooard cooks orl their grub, an’ I thought as ’ow we cud drug it, sir!” His eyes twinkled with excitement as he unfolded his idea.

“What?” whispered the captain, seeing a ray of hope. “And then recapture the ship while they’re asleep? Is that what you mean?”

The urchin nodded, and anxiously awaited the captain’s verdict.

Horatio, in the literature of the “penny dreadful” type he was so fond of reading, had often come across cases where the villains achieved their nefarious ends by drugging their victims, and he did not see why the same scheme should not be carried out on this occasion.

Sims thought hard for a minute or two before replying. Then a pleased smile flitted across his face, and he patted the boy on the shoulder.

“Boy,” he said at last, “you’re a cunning little devil!”

Horatio blushed with pleasure.

Sims went on in a low voice: “I don’t see why your scheme shouldn’t work. D’you see that medicine chest there?” He pointed to a little teak cabinet on the bulkhead of the cabin.

Horatio said he did.

“The key’s on the hook alongside it,” said the skipper. “Open it!”

The boy fitted the key into the lock with a hand trembling with excitement.

“It’s open, sir,” he said expectantly.

“Right at the back you’ll see a—— ”

Sims hesitated a moment, for footsteps sounded outside. “You’ll see a bottle of quinine,” he concluded in his ordinary voice, for the footsteps halted before his door.

It was just as well he altered the last part of his sentence, for just at that moment the door opened and the foreign lieutenant entered.

Horatio’s face went white, and his knees knocked together with fright, but the officer saw nothing unusual in what was going on.

“Goot morning!” he said affably. “I am ver’ sorry to hear you are ill, captain. Vat is ze matter?”

“I’ve a touch of fever again,” replied the skipper, avoiding the other’s eye. “I’m just seeing if there’s any quinine in the medicine chest!” He lied bravely, but felt horribly nervous all the same.

“Vell,” replied the officer, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Vere is ze quinine?”

The captain’s heart nearly stopped with anxiety, for the foreigner went to the medicine chest and began examining the labels on the different bottles and phials.

Supposing he suspected? The thought was too awful.

But Horatio, although he felt as if his knees would give way, retained his presence of mind, and snatching up the nearest bottle, held it up and pretended to read the label. It was not quinine, but that did not matter, and taking it across to the captain he thrust it into his hand.

“Here it is, sir,” he remarked.

To his relief, the lieutenant gave up his search.

“Ah, does Inglesh words!” he exclaimed. “I can speak ze Inglesh ver’ vell, but to read him is more deefecult!”

“Yes,” agreed the skipper with a nervous grin. “They are a bit hard to understand.”

“Vell,” resumed the other pleasantly, “I ’ope you vill soon be vell. Ef zere is anyzing you vant, please to let me know. I say good morning now!” He made a courtly bow and left the cabin.

“Oh, lor’!” gasped the boy with a sigh of relief, as the footsteps died away. “I thought he’d spot wot we was up to!”

“Now,” whispered Sims. “Right at the back at the left of the top row, you’ll see a small blue bottle with an orange-coloured label.”

Horatio dived his hands into the cabinet and withdrew it with the bottle in his grasp.

“Is this it, sir?” he asked eagerly.

“I think so,” said Sims. “Bring it here.”

The boy brought it across, and examining the label the captain saw it was the one he wanted.

“D’you know what this is?” he asked, tapping it.

“No, sir.”

“It’s laudanum. There’s enough in this to send the whole lot of ’em to sleep. Lucky it’s a fairly weak solution, so it won’t actually kill ’em. Here, take it,” he continued, “hide it somewhere!”

Horatio thrust the bottle into the front of his tattered shirt.

“What must I do with it, sir?” he asked mysteriously, for he felt as if he was assisting to blow up the Houses of Parliament, or something equally desperate.

“Shove it in their food, somehow. D’you think you can do it?”

“They orl ’as corfee arter their supper!” whispered the boy, with his eyes opening very wide. “’Ow’ll that do, sir?”

“Very well, I should think,” answered Sims. “What time do they have it?”

“’Bout eight o’clock, sir.”

“Well, empty the bottle in their coffee when you make it. You take the men’s dinners to the forecastle, don’t you?”

Horatio nodded.

“Well, tell ’em, then,” hissed the skipper, “to be ready to make a dash for the deck at half-past eight this evening; d’you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And tell the officers too, if you get a chance. Now run along. They may smell a rat if you’re here too long. You quite understand what to do, don’t you?”

“Orl rite, sir. I understan’. I’ve got it orl fixed up in me ’ead!” And so saying the boy departed.

Sims lay back on his bunk with a sigh of relief. The plan seemed so very simple; but yet, somehow, too simple to be successful.

Would it succeed? He wondered.

The weary day drew on, and to the captain the hours seemed interminable. He tried to read, but the words conveyed nothing to his brain, for his feverish anxiety would not allow him to concentrate his mind upon his book.

His meals were brought to him by Horatio, who informed him that the men had been told of what was to take place, but the day passed slowly, and he was not sorry when the sound of voices and the clattering of knives and forks outside in the saloon told him that the foreigners were at their supper.

His watch was hanging on the bulkhead, and at three minutes past eight precisely he heard chairs being pushed back and footsteps leaving the saloon. Then came dead silence, only disturbed by the ripple of water as the ship drove along and the footsteps of someone walking up and down on the poop.

He waited in breathless anxiety. Ten minutes past eight, twenty past. Would the time never pass? The minute hand of his watch seemed to be moving terribly slowly, somehow.

He was just beginning to feel nervous, when the footsteps above ceased. He listened intently. Twenty-five minutes past!

He crept out of his bunk and tiptoed noiselessly to the door.

Half-past eight, but nothing happened.

He trembled violently in his overwhelming excitement. Suppose the men had decided that the risk was too great. Suppose—a hundred and one possibilities flashed through his mind.

The hand of the watch crept on to two minutes past the half-hour, and just as he had given up hope, he heard the sudden rush of feet on the ladder leading to the poop.

Nerving himself for an effort, he took a run and hurled himself at the door, hearing as he did so a confused shouting on the poop, followed by two revolver shots. He was no light weight, and the stout panels ripped and crashed as he flung himself at them, and, falling through the debris, he found himself on all fours in the saloon. Picking himself up he dashed out on deck and up the ladder to the poop, and what he saw brought a wave of thankfulness to his heart. The British were in possession. The prize-master lay senseless by the wheel, while the warrant officer, who had evidently been on watch at the time of the attack, had been disarmed, and was now being bound by some of the Evelyn MacDonald’s crew.

Farther aft, two more of the enemy lay prone with their weapons beside them, and looking along the upper deck he saw more of his own men binding the others.

“What’s happened?” he inquired breathlessly, making his way towards the nearest group of men.

“Lor’ bless ye, sir!” exclaimed Ginger Smith excitedly; “they wus orl as ’elpless as babes. Th’ orficer ’ere fired ’is pistol afore we biffed ’im on th’ ’ead, but orl th’ others wus lyin’ like cawpses! Lor’, it wus a gran’ idea of ’Oratio’s, an’ no bloomin’ herror!”

“But where is Horatio?” asked the captain, looking round and not seeing the boy.

“’E wus on deck when we belted this ’ere cove on th’ nut,” remarked one of the other seamen.

“What’s become of him, I wonder?” said Sims anxiously, for he had a sudden horrible feeling that the boy had been killed or flung overboard.

He left the poop and ran forward to the galley and put his head inside.

Twilight was fast approaching, but he saw a small white figure sitting on a locker.

“Chivers!” he said concernedly, for there was something about the youth’s attitude he did not like. “Chivers! Is that you?”

“Yus, sir, it’s me,” said the figure in a husky whisper.

“What’s the matter with you?” queried the captain sympathetically.

“It ’urts somethink crool!” whimpered Horatio.

“What hurts, sonny?”

“Please, sir, that cove wi’ a black beard fired ’is pistol an’ th’ bullet went through me arm!” He showed his left arm, from a neat puncture in which the blood was slowly trickling through his fingers.

“Poor little chap!” said Sims huskily. “Come on, I’ll help you aft, and we’ll put a bandage on it and soon make it better. Don’t forget, my boy,” he added, “it was you who saved the ship!”

“Thank you, sir,” whispered Horatio, as his shipmates clustered round eager to help.

Little more remains to be said. Horatio’s wound did not prove very serious, for the bullet had gone through without touching the bone, and when he had been bandaged, the drugged Germans were clapped below in the forecastle with an armed seaman to guard them, and once more the ship was turned round on her course for the Cape of Good Hope.

Some days later the captain of H.M.S. Yorkshire, a 22-knot cruiser, on her way to Simon’s Bay, was rather surprised when a signalman knocked at his cabin door and informed him that a British steamer was flying a signal to the effect that she had prisoners she wished to transfer.

“Prisoners!” he remarked, in a surprised voice. “Humph, some of their own fellows kicked over the traces, I suppose!”

Nevertheless, the cruiser’s course was altered to close the tramp, and stopping abreast of her, she lowered a boat.

The cutter soon arrived alongside the Evelyn MacDonald, and a little midshipman, followed by two armed marines, clambered on board.

“I’ve got seventeen prisoners for you,” remarked Sims, when they had saluted each other.

“Seventeen what?” cried the small officer in amazement, fingering his dirk.

“Seventeen officers and men of the German navy!”

The middy opened his eyes in astonishment. “But how the dickens did they get here?” he demanded.

Sims told him what had happened.

“Well, this is the rummiest business I’ve ever heard of,” declared the future Nelson. “Oh, lor’, though,” he added, “it’s a bit tough her capturing you, isn’t it?”

“I should jolly well think it was, mister,” agreed the skipper with a smile.

“By the way, captain,” remarked the midshipman, as the prisoners were being transferred to the boat, “I should awfully like to shake hands with that Horatio of yours!”

Horatio, much to his disgust and blushing furiously, was pushed forward and solemnly introduced to the young officer, who gravely saluted, and then wrung him by the hand.

“I say, old chap,” he suddenly remarked, bursting with curiosity, “you might let me have a look at the hole in your arm!”

Horatio was forced to untie his bandage and exhibit the neat little puncture.

“I’d give a year’s pay for that!” sighed the middy, for he had never been in action himself.

The officers and men of the Evelyn MacDonald broke into a roar of laughter, in which even the solemn-faced marines joined.

Half-an-hour later the prisoners had been safely transferred, and the man-of-war, with her crew cheering themselves hoarse—for the story had become known all over the ship—was steaming off to the southward.

Soon afterwards the steamer followed suit, and in due course arrived at her destination.

Horatio, I hear, is now serving in the Royal Navy, but he still bears a scar on his left arm, and he is not a little proud of it.

“Well,” remarked Captain Morris of the tug Evening Star, as he slowly refilled his pipe, “things have been pretty bad wi’ us fur th’ last six months. As ye know, mate, I sank all me capital in this old hooker when me poor missus died. The craft’s cost me more’n I care to think about, what wi’ th’ coal, upkeep, an’ wages, and we’ve not had a job wuth calling a job fur a long time. There’s Tom’s schoolin’ to think about, too,” he continued, glancing at his sixteen-year-old son, who sat on the cushioned locker beside him.

Johnson, the mate, nodded, but said nothing.

“Why don’t you let me take that job at the shipbuilding yard, father?” said the boy. “I should earn enough to live on, and then I should cost you nothing.”

“I don’t grudge the money, my son,” continued the skipper; “don’t think that. You’ve bin a good lad, an’ ’tis money well spent. I did want to get ye that job along o’ th’ Wireless Telegraphy Company. The work here in the yard’ll lead to nothing, an’ ye’ll be stuck here all yer life.”

Tom himself did not fancy the idea of spending his days in the little seaport town of Halmouth, though, to save his father expense, he was quite prepared to enter Mr. Saunders’ shipbuilding yard.

“But,” he said, “if nothing else turns up, I must take what I can.”

“I’m afraid so,” replied Morris with a sigh.

“What are ye thinkin’ o’ doin’, then, cap’n?” broke in the mate. “Goin’ to chuck the sea?”

“I’ll have to sell this craft an’ get a job ashore,” growled the skipper. “The Tug an’ Lighter Company have made me an offer for her, an’, though ’tis two hundred less than I gave for her two year ago, I’ll have to take it. Buyin’ an’ sellin’ are two different things, an’ she’s runnin’ sweeter now than ever she was; besides, look at the money I’ve spent on her.”

The mate muttered something under his breath, for he did not like the idea of serving under some other skipper.

“Well,” continued Morris, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead, and rising to his feet and stretching himself, “’tis close on time; we’d best be getting off. Tom, my son, you’d best turn in; it’ll give ye a chance of gettin’ to sleep afore we starts lollopin’ about outside.”

“No, father,” exclaimed the boy; “I’m not a bit tired, and I’d much rather stay up with you.”

“Right ye are, then,” replied his father with a smile; “but when I was your age I liked my bed a fair sight more’n you do.”

With this concluding remark he went on deck, followed by Tom and the mate.

The Evening Star lay anchored in the harbour, while all round her glittered the lights of the coasting craft, taking shelter from the bad weather outside.

The little vessel rolled gently on the slight swell coming in from seaward, while overhead the detached masses of cloud, scurrying across the face of the sky on the strong south-westerly wind, showed that it was blowing a full gale. The glass was also falling rapidly, so there was every prospect of the weather outside being bad.

Tom, at the time of which I write, was studying at a school some distance away from Halmouth, and was now home on his holidays. He was trying for a position in a wireless telegraphy company, a profession in which the prospects were good, and being naturally intelligent and a hard worker, he had every prospect of success in the entrance examination which was due to be held in six months’ time.

The news that his father would not be able to afford his school fees any more came as rather a shock; but, though it was a bitter disappointment, he put a brave face upon it.

As a rule he spent his holidays with his unmarried aunt, who had a little house in Halmouth; but, if the truth must be told, he was not over-fond of the austere old lady, who had such strange ideas as to how boys should behave; so more often than not he lived on board the Evening Star with his father, and looked upon the occasional trips to sea as a great treat.

Once on deck, the skipper glanced round with his practised eye.

“I don’t like the look of the weather,” he observed to Johnson; “look at all that wrack up there to wind’ard.”

“Looks pretty bad,” agreed the mate.

“We must go out,” said the skipper, “for all the weather may be. Are ye all ready for gettin’ the anchor up?”

“All ready, cap’n.”

“All right; get her up, then,” ordered Morris, making his way to the little bridge, followed by his son. “We’re in for a dirty night, my lad,” he observed, “an’ we’d best get our oilskins on now.”

He disappeared into the wheelhouse, and presently reappeared with two bundles.

“Here ye are, boy,” he said, throwing one into Tom’s arms; “they’ll be a bit big for ye, but ye’ll want ’em afore the night’s out.”

Tom put them on, and, with a sou’wester crammed down over his ears, took his place on the bridge alongside his father.

A quarter of an hour later the tug was threading her way through the crowded anchorage, and soon afterwards passed the bobbing buoys at the harbour mouth.

Once in the open water, the combined forces of the wind and sea began to make themselves felt, and whiffs of spray rattled on the painted canvas weather screens of the bridge like volleys of small shot, and this soon developed into a regular shower of water as the little ship drove her way seaward at ten knots.

“How d’ye like it, Tom?” asked the skipper. “Feelin’ seasick?”

“Seasick!” exclaimed Tom indignantly. “I’m enjoying myself fine; much better than being with Aunt Susan, and having to be in bed by half-past eight!”

Morris laughed, and clutching the bridge rail with one brawny hand to steady himself, motioned to the helmsman to put the wheel over.

The bows of the little ship swung round as she took up her new course, and as she was now heading the sea, she rolled and pitched horribly. One instant the bows of the tug were under water, while the next they would be flung high in the air as a gigantic sea raced in from the gloom ahead.

Shipping heavy masses of water, and with the spray driving over her funnel top, the brave little vessel fought her way westward. The water washed round the sea-booted legs of those on the bridge, but holding on to the rails, they peered ahead through the darkness.

Nothing could be seen except the dark gloom of the land and the flashes from a lighthouse away on the starboard bow, while from the south-westward the enormous hillocks of water, the broken water on their summits showing grey in the darkness of the night, advanced on the labouring tug.

At midnight the skipper turned over the watch to the mate, and leaving orders to be called at two o’clock, retired to his tiny cabin.

Tom also went below, and taking off his dripping oilskins, wedged himself firmly on the cushioned lockers in the little saloon. He was dog-tired, and in spite of the violent movement, was soon fast asleep.

By the time the skipper returned to the bridge the Evening Star was well out at sea, and when the mate had gone below the engines were eased to dead slow. The movement instantly became

gentler, and the tug rode over the seas without shipping a drop of water.

Morris stumped up and down the bridge smoking his pipe, stopping every now and then to look round the horizon; but nothing rewarded his gaze except the lights of a few ships making their way up Channel.

Three o’clock came, and by this time the sky overhead had commenced to clear, and presently stars appeared.

The skipper noted these changes with a grunt of satisfaction, and was just about to continue his walk when he suddenly stopped dead. His eye had been caught by a shower of bright falling stars far ahead, in the deep blue sky on the horizon.

“By gum! What’s that?” he muttered.

He had not long to wait, for hardly were the words out of his mouth when the fiery trail of a rocket leapt out from the darkness. He watched it until it burst in a shower of white stars, and then, motioning to the helmsman to steer straight for it, jumped to the engine-room telegraph and put it to “full speed ahead.” He then took the syren lanyard and gave it several lusty pulls.

The hoarse braying of the powerful instrument bellowed out in a series of loud “whoops,” and before the noise had died away, Tom, the mate, and the engineer came rushing on to the bridge.

“What is it?” they all asked in chorus.

“Ship in distress,” said the skipper abruptly, as the tug forged ahead. “She’s bin firin’ rockets.”

As he spoke there was another trail of fire, followed by a shower of stars, as a third rocket climbed upwards and then burst.

“It may mean a salvage job for us,” ejaculated Morris, feeling strangely excited. “Mate, get a blue light to answer them.”

The engineer had vanished on the mention of the word “salvage,” and soon the little tug was quivering as she leapt forward at her best speed.

Johnson quickly reappeared, and before long a blue light had been ignited and was spluttering in his hand. The flare shone out over the heaving sea, illuminating the wave tops as they rushed by, and presently it was answered by a flare from something dead ahead.

“She’s seen us, whoever she is!” exclaimed Morris.

The Evening Star was rapidly approaching, and in about twenty minutes a dull black blur, punctuated by row after row of lighted portholes, became visible in the darkness right ahead.

“She’s a thunderin’ great ship!” gasped the mate, gazing at her in astonishment.

“One of the Australian mail boats, I think,” remarked the skipper, who was looking at her through his binoculars. “I can see two masts and funnels, and—yes, by gum! she’s showing her two red not-under-control lights!” he added, with a pleased, excited laugh.

“Mail boat!” exclaimed Johnson; “that’ll mean a tidy lot o’ money for us if we give her a tow!”

“It will, mate!” agreed Morris joyfully.

Tom, too, felt pleased, for the opportunity for which they had all wished had evidently come.

Steaming on, the tug was soon close alongside the great liner, round whose hull the sea broke in masses of spray. Taking his ship close, Morris took a megaphone and stepped to the end of his bucketing bridge.

“What ship is that?” he bellowed. “D’you want assistance?”

“Yes,” came back a voice from the towering bulk above. “We’re the Cashmere. We struck sunken wreckage about a couple of hours ago, and our rudder’s gone, while the port propeller’s damaged. We’re not making any water to speak of.”

“D’you want a tow, then?” shouted the skipper.

“Yes,” came back the reply. “Could you get us along to Halmouth? We can land the passengers and mails there.”

“I can take ye there,” answered the joyful Morris.

A few more shouted directions passed between the two vessels while a knot of men on the liner’s forecastle made the end of a coir hawser fast to a life-buoy.[B] This was then thrown overboard, and the line was paid out while the tug backed astern.

After what seemed an eternity the buoy was seen floating on the heaving water close to the side of the Evening Star, and when several unsuccessful attempts had been made, it was at length dragged on board. It was then taken to the steam winch, and the powerful little engine commenced to heave in fathom after fathom as Morris manœuvred the tug so as to get ahead of theº Cashmere.

It all took time, but before long a wire hawser appeared, made fast to the end of the coir. The end of this was secured to the towing hook in the tug, and at length there came a hail from the liner to say the other end had also been made fast.

Putting the engine-room telegraph at “Half speed,” Morris circled the Evening Star round for her course for Halmouth. But the engineer below made a fatal mistake; he gave the engines rather too much speed, and as the weight of the liner came on the hawser it suddenly tautened and flew out of the water. The skipper saw at once what had happened, and dashed to the telegraph to stop the engines.

He was too late, however, for there was a sharp crack, and the steel wire suddenly snapped in two. The vessels were once more separated.

“That comes o’ using their bloomin’ wires,” muttered the skipper angrily; “a decent bit o’ hemp ’ud never part like that!”

The men in both ships hauled in the ends of the broken wire, and as they did so Morris reviewed the situation in his mind. He had on board the Evening Star a strong 18-inch hemp rope, which would tow the liner with safety, but the question was how to get it across to the other ship.

He could not float it on account of its weight, while the sea was still too great to lower a boat, and to take the tug close to the disabled ship was too risky to be attempted. He did not wish to lose the chance of towing the Cashmere, but though he thought hard, he could see no way out of the difficulty.

“I don’t know what to do, my son,” he at length remarked to Tom in a puzzled voice; “their blessed wire’s parted, and how are we to get another across?”

The boy thought for a moment.

“Couldn’t I swim across with a thin line, father?” he said at length. “We could tie a life-buoy on to the end of it, and then they could haul a hawser across.”

The skipper looked surprised.

“Swim!” he exclaimed. “How d’ye expect to do it in this sea? You’d never get there.”

“Oh, yes, I would, father,” replied Tom confidently; “you forget I won a prize for swimming last summer term.”

“I couldn’t let ye do it,” said Morris; “it’s too dangerous, an’ I don’t want to lose ye. Look at the sea!”

Tom looked at the heaving waste of water, and it certainly did appear alarming, for the wind whistled across the great rolling waves until their broken tops were flung to leeward in clouds of flying scud.

“Oh, do let me!” he pleaded. “I shall be perfectly safe if I have a lifebelt on, and I shall be holding on to a life-buoy the whole time. You can always haul me back if there’s any danger.”

“I don’t like to,” returned his father hesitatingly; “not but what ye’d do it, but supposing ye got drowned.”

“I won’t get drowned, father,” answered Tom. “How can I if I’ve got a lifebelt on? Just think of what it means. If you tow this ship home you’ll make a lot of money, and if you don’t, somebody else will. You must let me go, father!”

“Yes, it means a lot to me; but suppose—— ”

“You’ll let me go, then?” interrupted Tom, who saw his father was coming round to his way of thinking.

The skipper waited a moment or two, thinking, and then nodded slowly.

“Hooray!” shouted the boy. “I’ll get ready at once!” He ran off the bridge.

Ten minutes later, with a cork jacket round his body and clutching a life-buoy, to which the end of a thin line had been made fast, Tom leapt into the water over the tug’s stern. The line was slacked, and, striking out with his legs, he pushed the buoy through the water and soon got clear of the tug.

In five minutes he was half-way between the two ships, but it was becoming hard work.

At times he would be borne skywards on the foaming crest of a sea, while the next moment he would be deep down in a hollow. Still he struggled on with dogged perseverance, and though breathing was difficult and his eyes were full of scud, so that he could hardly see where he was going, he was moving slowly forward.

Those in the liner had noticed what had taken place, and while the passengers thronged the side and watched the lad’s gallant struggle, for it was now daylight, a rope ladder was lowered over the bows, and a man with a rope round his waist and with the coil of another in his hand, descended to the bottom to help Tom on his arrival.

On and on struggled the swimmer, until at last he came within fifty feet of the great ship, whose tall, black side towered high above him. He was beginning to feel tired and cold; but he still swum strongly, and in a short time was close to the foot of the ladder.

A second or two later a gigantic sea lifted him towards it, and he made a frantic grasp for the lower rung. He missed it, and was being swept away, when the man on the ladder seized his opportunity and threw his rope.

The bowline in the end fell close to the boy, who had the presence of mind to clutch it and place it round his body under his arms. He then undid the smaller rope attached to the life-buoy, and made that also fast round his waist, and, lifting his hand, gave the signal for those on deck to haul in. They pulled with a will, and in a second he felt himself swing into the air, and managed to grasp the ladder.

He rested for a moment, for his ordeal had tired him out, and then, with the man’s assistance, slowly climbed on deck. He had done what he said he would, and as he appeared the crew and passengers of the Cashmere broke into cheer after cheer.

Tom was exhausted after his swim, but was soon taken below to a cabin and provided with a suit of clothes, while before he reappeared on deck the hawser from the Evening Star had been hauled on board, and the two vessels were moving slowly up Channel.

Soon afterwards the wind and sea began to go down, and eight hours later the two ships dropped their anchors in Halmouth harbour. Morris came on board the Cashmere immediately afterwards, and was greeted by his son at the top of the accommodation ladder.

“I’m proud of ye, my son,” exclaimed the skipper, with a quiver in his voice, and wringing the boy’s hand; “I’m proud of ye!”

“So are we all,” said the captain of the liner, coming forward with outstretched hand, “and the passengers have all been spoiling him. I should be proud to have a son like him!”

Tom blushed.

“Well, well,” said Morris, “he’s a good son, an’ all’s well that ends well.”

“You’ve both done us a good turn,” said the other, “and a good stroke of business for yourself at the same time, for I can assure you my owners won’t forget it. Come along to the saloon, captain,” he continued, “for the passengers want to thank you, too.”

Much against his will, the skipper was ushered below, and on his appearance in the gorgeously decorated saloon, where all the passengers were assembled, there was a burst of cheering.

Morris stood nervously fingering his cap, for he was unused to things of this kind; but, holding up his hand for silence, the captain of the liner made a short speech.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “you have all met the captain’s son, but now I must introduce the captain himself. He saw our rockets and came to our assistance, and Master Tom here swam across with the line after the hawser broke. It is due to them both that we have reached our journey’s end in safety, and I will ask you to give them three cheers. I think they deserve it.”

This was the signal for another outburst, and when at length it had subsided a well-groomed, portly old gentleman advanced.

“Captain Morris,” he began, “I have been asked by the passengers to express to you, your noble son, and your gallant crew, our heartfelt thanks for what you have done for us. Er—you have saved us from a predicament which might well have resulted in a tragedy had it not been for your timely assistance, and I have great pleasure in handing you this small gift on behalf of us all, as a thank-offering for our deliverance.”

Here he handed the skipper a small brown-paper parcel.

Ten minutes later Tom and his father, having thanked the passengers for their gift, were back on board the tug, and when the skipper, and his son, the mate, and the engineer were sitting down to tea in the little cabin, the skipper produced the parcel from his pocket, and opening it took out two envelopes, one addressed to himself and the other to Tom.

“By gum!” he cried, opening his, and pulling out a bundle of notes and cheques, “fifty, a hundred, two hundred, three hundred pounds!”

“And a hundred here!” shouted Tom, displaying a cheque. “Father, they have been good to us!”

. . . . . .

Little more remains to be said. The captain distributed the money among his crew in shares, the latter insisting that Tom should keep the whole of his hundred pounds.

Soon afterwards another substantial sum of money was received from the owners of the Cashmere, and it far exceeded the amount Morris had expected; for his share, when invested, gave him an income sufficient to keep him in comfort for the remainder of his life.

The skipper has now left the sea, but the Evening Star is still running, under the command of her former mate.

Tom realised his ambition, for he is now a wireless telegraphy operator on board one of the large Transatlantic liners, and, though he has been through many adventures, he has never forgotten his swim on the occasion when he helped to salve the Cashmere.

War was a reality, and had actually been in progress for over a month, and the four destroyers, their black shapes sliding noiselessly throughout the night, steamed to and fro with no lights off the entrance to the blockaded harbour. They had been doing this for over three weeks, and since the day after the fleet action on the very outbreak of hostilities in which the enemy had been badly worsted and compelled to retire under the guns of their fortress, they had been carrying out the same routine. There were well over forty torpedo craft actually patrolling, but of these four had been told off for the advanced patrol line and were consequently some distance inshore of the remainder of their consorts.

Sometimes at night they would move slowly to and fro on a line parallel to and about five miles off the coast and the entrance to the harbour, but during the daytime they withdrew seaward, and their places were filled by a cordon of cruisers stationed fifteen miles off the land. A nearer approach in broad daylight was not permissible, for the enemy’s coast defences, armed with powerful long-range guns, had to be treated with due respect. The blockade was maintained with ruthless vigilance, however, for the lines of destroyers, scouts and cruisers guarded all means of exit from the doomed fortress. Away to seaward lay the whole battle fleet, the admiral in command being in constant communication with his inshore vessels by means of wireless telegraphy.

The enemy had not been particularly active, and except for the fleet action, in which it was reported that four of their battleships had been sunk and three more and one battle-cruiser badly damaged, their losses were not known. At the close of the battle the torpedo craft had been sent in to convert the retreat into a rout, but although they had attacked the fleeing enemy the results of their efforts were not known, while several of the destroyers had been badly injured and had finally sunk. Since then there had been little going on, for although the hostile torpedo craft had put to sea at night on three different occasions, they had each time been forced back by the watching vessels. The losses in these encounters were not known for certain, but while that of the blockaders consisted of some couple of dozen men killed and wounded and a destroyer temporarily disabled, it was thought that two of the enemy’s craft had been lost. The hostile submarines, strangely enough, had been comparatively inactive.

The men in the blockading craft were getting sick of it. Not sick of the war, but tired of doing nothing, and in spite of the hard time they were having they were spoiling for a fight.

The weary monotony of the patrol was beginning to tell on their nerves, and they were all, without exception, decidedly annoyed with the enemy for not having more dash and initiative.

The last ship of the four comprising the inner patrol is the one which principally concerns us, and her ship’s company, although the remainder of their flotilla mates called them “pirates,” were perhaps more than usually anxious for the fight from this selfsame reason. It was a pitch-dark night, and the stars and moon were obscured in the heavy clouds banked in the sky, while the north-westerly wind whistled over the surface of the sea and flung the foam from the top of the short curling seas to leeward in sheets of spray. It was midwinter and bitterly cold, and the icy blast numbed all those on board to the very marrow, while to touch metal with the bare hand was painful. The decks, in the places to which the warmth of the boilers had not penetrated, were covered with a thin sheet of ice which was momentarily becoming thicker as the driving spray fell and froze, and in spite of their sheepskin coats, leather sea-boots, and fur caps with ear flaps, the officers and men were almost numb.

On the bridge stood the captain—a young lieutenant-commander—with his sub-lieutenant, signal man, and quartermaster, and every now and then the officers would stamp their feet and swing their arms to restore their circulation. The ship ahead, the white wash of her wake showing up through the blackness of the night, could be seen as a dim shadow over the bows, while far off on the beam the dull line of the coast was occasionally visible through the rifts in the driving squalls. The little ship was all ready for action, for steam was up for full speed, while the torpedoes were ready in their tubes and the guns had their ammunition by them. The watch on deck, except for a look-out at each tube, were huddled together under such shelter as they could obtain from the wind; some were smoking and talking in a low voice, while others were fitfully dozing. Sleep, however, was out of the question on account of the cold, and every now and then a recumbent form would sit up with a grunt and a yawn and curse the weather in extremely nautical language.

“Strike me bloomin’ well pink, Bill,” said an able seaman to his chum. “I’m gettin’ fair fed up with this ’ere, for all the fun we’ve ’ad we might as well be mobilisin’!”

“What yer talkin’ about?” replied his friend. “When they does come out you’ll get yer bellyful all right, I expect. You’ll be singin’ out then right enuf!”

“I ain’t afraid of ’em,” answered the first speaker, “but this ’ere show’s too perishin’ parky for the likes o’ me; knockin’ abart the ’ole time doin’ nothing gives me the fair ’ump. G-r-r-r, it’s cold!”

“Never mind, ole chum, you’ll be warm soon enuf, I reckon,” said the other.

The conversation continued, and the commanding officer, happening to hear what was said, for the speakers were sitting on the deck at the foot of the ladder leading to the bridge, turned to his sub-lieutenant and said, “Well, judging from what they say they’re just about as fed up with this show as I am. I wish to goodness they’d come and have it out!” He was referring to the enemy.

“Yes, sir, so do I,” replied the sub. “We ought to be at the end of the patrol line in another twenty minutes,” he added, “and then we make the sixteen-point turn to the opposite course.”

“Oh, well, keep a good look out, and call me if you see or hear anything,” said the lieutenant-commander. “I’ll try to get a bit of a caulk. Look out, and don’t get astern of station,” and so saying he lay down in a deck chair on the bridge.

Now a deck chair on the bridge of a destroyer in midwinter is not an ideal place for sleep, however many clothes you may have on, and the commanding officer soon gave it up as a bad job and sat staring up at the scurrying clouds above his head. It was getting on for one o’clock in the morning, and he had spent most of his nights in this manner for the past three weeks, taking what sleep he could in the daytime. He had had a hurried wash now and then, but had hardly been out of his clothes, except to change them occasionally, for the whole period. His young face, the cheeks and chin now covered with a thick stubble, seemed prematurely aged, and he bore no resemblance to the smart young officer of three months before. He had aged, and no wonder, for was he not one of the watches upon whom his admiral depended to stop the hostile torpedo craft if they came out? If they were allowed to steal unmolested to the open sea they might be able to deliver a successful attack on the battle fleet, so it was not to be marvelled at that the officers on the advanced patrol felt the responsibility laid heavily upon them.

The weary night drew on, and the patrolling boats steamed to and fro on their beat, but the enemy showed no signs of activity. At about 2.15 a.m., however, the sullen thud of a heavy explosion in the direction of the harbour floated down on the wind. “Cæsar’s aunt!” shouted the lieutenant-commander, springing up. “What’s that?” “Sounded to me like a mine,” answered the sub-lieutenant. “I’ll take my oath it wasn’t a gun.”

“But who’d be messin’ about on top of mines at this time of night? There are none of our craft inshore of us,” said the commanding officer. “By George, though! I’ve got it,” after a minute’s thought, “you know our minelayers were at work off the harbour entrance about a week ago. That’s what it is. The other fellows are comin’ out, and one of the silly blighters has got mixed up in our minefield. It can’t be destroyers, they’d never come out at this time of the mornin’, give them no time to get back before daylight, and it’s their big ships or I’m a Dutchman!” He was still looking towards the shore some five miles away, and had barely spoken when the fiery trail of a rocket shot skywards from close in under the land. It burst in a shower of stars which illuminated everything in the vicinity, and for a brief moment the watchers saw, or thought they could see, a series of deeper shadows gathered under the low cliffs. Before they could make certain, however, the light had gone. But if the shadows were really there they could only be one thing, the enemy’s fleet.

“We’re in for a scrap at last,” exclaimed the captain, rubbing his hands. “Send down and tell the engineer to stand by for a spurt, and warn the hands to be ready!”

The men needed no encouragement, for they were all awake. All hands and the cook were on deck gazing anxiously landwards, and soon dispersed to their stations at the guns and torpedo tubes. The lieutenant-commander, meanwhile, was watching his next ahead, and as he looked he saw a series of red flashes made with a hand lamp, and a second later a whistle sounded shrilly along the line.

“Great Scott! He’s going in to attack!” he exclaimed, jumping to the engine-room telegraphs and jamming them on to full speed. “Look out for the foremost tube, sub. You’ll have to fire when your sights come on, and stand by to come up here if I get knocked out.” He was right. The senior officer had decided to take his chance and to attack, and in a short time the four destroyers were on their way for the harbour entrance at a good twenty knots.

Suddenly from the darkness right ahead the dazzling white ray of a searchlight shot out; it flickered for an instant, and then rested full on the leading boat. In another second at least half a dozen more had been switched on, and shortly afterwards the guns commenced their uproar. The vivid red flashes stabbed the darkness of the night, while the thundering reports, punctuated now and then by the poom-poom-poom of the lighter guns—for the enemy were using pom-poms—reverberated through the air in a noisy crescendo of sound. The whine of the shell and the crash of their explosions could be heard above the din, while at times the beams of the searchlights would be all but obscured by the fountains of spray flung up by the falling projectiles. At first the shooting was wild, but as more guns chimed in it became better, and the thrown-up spray was falling on the decks of the attacking boats while the shell splinters whistled through the air. Nobody as yet had been actually hit, and they drew closer and closer, until the leading boat put her helm over and swung abruptly to starboard, and followed by the remainder of her flock steamed at full speed along the enemy’s line some six hundred yards off. It could now be seen that there were about half a dozen big ships moving slowly ahead, and the leading destroyer, as she swung, fired two torpedoes. Then, after what seemed an eternity, an enormous upheaval of mingled water and flame rose at the side of the battleship, as still firing wildly she vanished in the smoke and spray astern. The roar of the detonation was all but drowned by the reports of the guns, but there was no doubt that one torpedo had gone home.

The fire had now become accurate, and shell after shell, bursting on impact with the water, sent its jagged fragments whistling across the attackers’ deck. Men commenced to fall, rents appeared in the funnels, boats were splintered, but still they swept on, each vessel as she came abreast her opposite number in the enemy’s line firing her torpedoes. How many got home it was impossible to say, for the smoke and spray all but blotted out the outline of the hostile ships. A series of explosions were heard, however, so it was hoped that several of the weapons had found their billet.

The whole attack was over in less than four minutes from the first gun being fired, and in another two the destroyers were swallowed up in the darkness and were steaming to sea as fast as their damaged condition could allow them. The enemy were still firing, but their shot was falling nowhere near the retreating destroyers. Presently, however, this ceased and all was silent once more.

On getting about three miles from the coast the leading boat stopped, and on comparing notes with the others it was found that in the whole sub-division one officer and eighteen men had been killed outright, while fourteen others were wounded. The boats themselves were not vitally damaged, but the funnels, sides, and decks of all four were badly perforated and torn. There was an underwater hole—the only one—in the second boat, but the engines and boilers remained untouched, and on the orifice being plugged she could keep down the flow of water with her pumps.

A wireless signal was made to the supporting cruisers telling them that an attack had been made, and the wounded were made as comfortable as possible until daylight, when the destroyers would be able to approach their own fleet. Towards 4 a.m. another burst of firing broke out in the direction of the harbour, and it was surmised that the outer patrolling boats had gone in to attack. More firing took place at irregular intervals till daylight, as attack after attack was pressed home, and it was evident that the enemy were having anything but a pleasant time.

Towards six o’clock the first signs of dawn appeared to the eastward, and by 6.30 it was light enough to see the harbour entrance. Two big ships appeared to be ashore, and another was sunk with her masts and funnels above water, but beyond this it was impossible to see any details. At 7 a.m. the four destroyers steamed slowly seawards, and passing the outlying cruisers, met the battle fleet, which had approached to within twenty miles of the coast. The killed and wounded were sent aboard the larger vessels, and after being supplied with spare torpedoes the four proceeded at their best speed for their base to repair damages. As they left the signal “Well done, destroyers” fluttered from the foremost head of the flagship, and the weary crews broke into a throaty cheer as the signalmen read out the meaning of the cluster of flags.

They had done their work, and done it well, for the enemy’s fleet had been badly mauled. Life was well worth living. Even the thought of their dead and wounded messmates did not damp their spirits, for they knew they had carried out their work, and that their days and nights of weary watching had not been in vain.

There was no doubt that Jim Watson was in a very bad way. For three long, weary weeks he had wandered round the London docks on the look-out for a berth as cabin-boy. He had interviewed many masters and mates, but without success, for the first question he was invariably asked was: “Have you been to sea before?”

“No,” was all he could say; and, sick at heart, he had been turned away again and again. The family had migrated to England some four years previous to the time of which I write, and Jim’s mother had died a year afterwards. Mr. Watson had managed to secure a subordinate position in a shipping office in the City, but the loss of his wife had preyed on his mind, and three years afterwards he too had died.

So Jim had found himself an orphan at the age of fifteen, and, with two sovereigns and a few silver coins in his pocket, was cast out into the world to earn his own living. Relatives in England to whom he could apply for assistance he had none, and although his father’s old friend gave him a position as office boy, the meagre wages he received barely sufficed to pay for his food, let alone lodging. He had relations and friends in Australia, and determined to throw up his position at the office and endeavour to work his way out there as a cabin-boy in a ship; but in spite of tramping the docks every day for three long weeks, he had not yet succeeded in obtaining a berth. His small amount of money was vanishing rapidly; for although he cut his food down to the smallest possible limit, he found he could not live on less than 9d. a day, while his bed in a doss-house cost him another 6d. a night. He had no professional training, and although he was painstaking and plodding, his schooling had not fitted him for any employment ashore which would bring him in a living wage.

While tramping the docks he had known what hunger was—that awful, gnawing feeling of absolute emptiness which will turn even the strongest man into a living wreck—and as he pursued his weary way along the dock-side at Limehouse, he wondered how long it would last.

Walking along, he came to a small grey-painted steamer called the Sea Foam, made fast alongside the wharf. She was being loaded, and case after case was lowered into her hold, while a swarm of stevedores were hard at work amidst the rattling of steam winches and the shouts of the foremen. He stood and watched the busy scene for a while, and then noticing someone whose uniform cap showed him to be an officer of the ship, he formed a sudden resolve to go on board and ask for a berth. Walking up the gangway, he made his way forward and accosted the mate, for he it was.

“Please, sir,” he commenced, “could you——?”

“What is it, boy?” shouted the officer, turning round; “what do you want?”

Jim trembled; but in spite of the ferocity of the officer’s voice, there was a gleam of kindness in his eyes, and taking courage again he said:

“Please, sir, could you give me a berth? I want to go to Australia.”

“Australia, boy?” thundered the mate. “Australia? We’re not going there—going up the Straits. General cargo.”

The boy thought for a minute, and then came to the conclusion that if there was a chance of a berth he would give up the idea of joining his relations.

“I’m not very keen about Australia, sir,” he said. “I’m strong, and I could do any work.”

“Humph! On your beam ends, eh?” grunted the officer more kindly. “Well, I did hear the old man say he wanted a boy to help the steward, and I know he hasn’t shipped one yet. It’s a dog’s life, though,” he added, looking at Jim. “Been to sea before?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I don’t know that that matters; you won’t have much sailoring to do. Best wait and see the old man, he’ll be down along in an hour. Had your breakfast?”

“No, sir.”

For answer the mate walked aft, and putting his head through the door leading to the officers’ quarters under the bridge, bawled for the steward, who presently emerged.

“Look here, steward; take this youngster down below and give him something to eat. He looks as if he wanted it, poor little chap!”

“Thank you, sir,” said Jim gratefully, and following the steward, he was soon gobbling up an enormous meal in the little cubby-hole which did duty as a pantry.

“Well, my son, you’re a rare ’un on the victuals!” gasped the steward, as he watched the food disappear. “Hungry? Ain’t had nothing to eat for a fortnight, I should think! What did you come here for?”

“The officer said I might be taken on as a cabin-boy,” said Jim, between his mouthfuls.

“Oh, yes, I did hear the old man say something about having a boy to help me,” replied the steward. “Ye’ll have to mind your eye if he does take you on, though; the old man’s a fair caution when he gets his rag out.”

“I don’t mind that, sir,” said Jim. “Can you tell me where the ship’s going?”

“I dunno exactly,” replied the man; “I believe it’s somewhere up the Straits—Mediterranean, you know. This is her first trip; she’s a brand-new ship—just been built on the Tyne.”

“Do you know how long she will be away, sir?”

“No, sonny, I don’t know for certain. The crew’s only signed on for the voyage. The old man told them he thought ’twould be about three months; but I don’t think he knows for certain. She’s a good ship, though. Not like some of them ordinary tramps you see knocking around. She can do her fifteen knots easy—most of them can’t do more than ten.”

The conversation was here interrupted by shouts of “Steward!” And answering, “Coming, sir!” the man said, as he left the pantry, “That’s the old man. I expect he’ll want to see you in a minute.”

Jim waited in anxiety, and when the steward reappeared and said, “Come this way—he wants you,” he got up and followed the man to the officers’ berth.

“Are you the boy who wants a berth?” inquired a short, thick-set, bearded man, who was sitting in front of the stove. He looked ferocious, but his tone was not unkindly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Any experience?”

“No, sir,” said the boy, his heart failing him as he was asked the inevitable question.

“Well, we’ll knock some into you; and so long as you do your work you won’t fall foul of me. What about wages, now?”

“I’m ready to take anything, sir.”

“Five shillings a week I’ll give you. You get your food with the steward, of course,” said the captain.

“Thank you, sir,” gratefully replied Jim, for the amount, though small, was more than he had expected.

“Well, get your clothes aboard and the steward will show you your work. We sail on the evening tide, about four o’clock.” He waved his hand to show that the interview was at an end.

Jim left the cabin delighted at the prospect of getting away so soon, and, after asking his new master’s permission, went ashore to fetch his scanty belongings and to purchase a few more necessary articles with the remainder of his money.

Returning towards noon, he found the cargo stowed and the men busy preparing the ship for sea. He was not idle long, however, for the steward soon pounced upon him and initiated him into his new duties. These consisted in fetching the officers’ food from the galley, laying and clearing away the table before and after meals, waiting on the officers, washing up the plates, knives and forks, cleaning out, making the beds, and being generally responsible for the chief and second mates’ berths. There was plenty of work to be done, and the whole afternoon he was hard at it.

Towards half-past three steam was up and ready, and soon afterwards the dock gates opened and the Sea Foam was warped out through a basin crowded with shipping, until she finally passed into the muddy Thames. With a pilot on board she steamed slowly down the sinuous reaches of the river, past the Rotherhithe, East India, and Victoria and Albert Docks, and, off Gravesend, the pilot was dropped into his boat alongside, and the ship increased her speed and shaped her course towards the open sea.

It was all entirely novel to Jim, and he stood just below the bridge ladder looking at the ever-changing panorama of ships and land as the ship steamed along. All sorts and conditions of vessels there were: great passenger liners, tramp steamers, large four-masted ocean-going sailing ships, barges, etc., all claimed his attention in turn. He was, however, interrupted; for the mate, who had been aft, suddenly rushed forward, and, pushing Jim aside, dashed up the ladder on to the bridge, taking the steps two at a time. From where the boy stood the skipper could not be seen, but Jim could distinctly hear what was said.

“There’s a Customs launch following us, sir!” the mate shouted. “She’s cracking on all she knows, and will be alongside us in ten minutes!”

“They must have spotted those cases of rifles and ammunition,” said the skipper. “Look here, Barter, tell the engineer to go on all he knows. If he can give us fifteen knots, we should give them the slip all right. I hope they haven’t thought of wiring to Sheerness. They’ll have torpedo-boats out looking for us if they have.”

The mate did not wait to reply, but, running down the bridge ladder, rushed to the engine-room hatch, down which he disappeared. The vibration increased, and the Sea Foam was soon travelling at full speed, with the foam dashing from her bows and clouds of black smoke pouring from her funnel.

“Rifles?” thought Jim. “What on earth are they up to?” Moreover, there was something suspicious in the fact of the Customs boat’s following them and the captain’s taking steps to prevent her overhauling his ship. Glancing aft, he could see the little black-painted launch travelling at full speed, while a man in the bows was waving his arms and motioning to the steamer to stop. It was obvious, however, that the Sea Foam was gaining, and going to the end of the bridge the captain derisively waved his hand in reply, but made no effort to reduce speed.

The pursuit was still kept up, and the steamer dashed along at a rate which was entirely against all rules and regulations governing the speed of vessels navigating the Thames. Try as she might, the Customs launch could not overhaul her. From four hundred yards astern she had dropped to half a mile, and at last, when darkness crept on and the sea got choppy as the Sea Foam left the river and entered the estuary, her pursuer turned tail and abandoned the chase.

By 5:30 it was practically dark, and dashing along at her best speed the steamer rapidly neared the open water. In another half-hour the short, choppy waves had given way to heavier seas, and soon afterwards the little vessel was pitching and rolling more; as her bows were turned to the south-eastward towards the open sea.

It was blowing hard from the south-west, and the heavy masses of cloud were flying down from windward on the strong breeze. Occasional heavy rain-squalls all but blotted out the lights round about, and it was obvious that they were in for a dirty night. But in spite of the risk the captain had ordered all lights to be obscured, for he was anxious lest torpedo-boats from Sheerness might have been sent out to intercept him, and these he naturally wished to avoid.

Jim was still standing at the foot of the bridge ladder when he heard someone come to the top of it.

“Is that you, boy?” said the captain’s voice.

“Yes, sir,” answered Jim.

“Go to the steward and tell him to send up some hot coffee for me and the mate.”

Jim departed on his errand, and presently returned on deck and went to the bridge with two cups of the steaming fluid balanced on a tray. It was pitch dark and blowing hard, while the violent movement of the ship made climbing the bridge ladder rather a difficult matter. The captain and mate took the cups; and, left to himself, Jim had a chance to look about him. Far away to starboard twinkled the lights of Margate, while nearer there were the red, white and green lights of a number of steamers. Going to the end of the bridge, the boy peered over the canvas weather-screen, noticing as he did so that the lights were still unlit; and, as he watched the foaming white caps of the waves go seething past the side of the ship, he heard the skipper make a sudden exclamation:

“What’s that right ahead there, with no lights, Barter?” he gasped, pointing out over the bows.

“Destroyer or torpedo-boat!” said the mate, seizing his night glasses and levelling them.

Jim looked in the direction indicated, and there, barely a quarter of a mile ahead, wallowing in the sea, was a long black shape whose four funnels proclaimed her to be a torpedo-boat destroyer.

“Hard-a-port!” shouted the captain, dropping his coffee cup on to the deck with a crash; “we shall be into her!”

The Sea Foam swung round and cleared the stern of the destroyer by barely twenty yards, and as she did so, shouting could be heard from the latter’s bridge.

“What are you knocking about for without lights, you pirate?” yelled an angry voice; “what ship is that?”

“The Caledonia, London to Barcelona. Sea’s put our lights out!” shouted back the skipper on the spur of the moment.

The mate laughed; but an instant later he exclaimed:

“She smells a rat, sir—she’s after us!”

It was true; for the destroyer, now right astern, was turning into the wake of the steamer, and, as the latter was steadied on her original course, volumes of sparks pouring from the funnels showed that she was being driven for all she was worth.

“They’ll have us, Barter,” gasped the skipper; “we can’t get away from her; she’ll go twenty-five knots at least!”

The man-of-war, however, had to turn, and by the time she was following the Sea Foam she was fully half a mile astern. At that moment a dense, blinding shower of rain drove down from the windward, shutting out all lights and making it impossible to see more than one hundred yards ahead. The skipper was not long in taking advantage of it, and on his shouting “Hard-a-starboard!” to the man at the wheel, the steamer’s bows were turned until she was pointing at right angles to her old course.

“She’ll think we’ve gone straight on,” said the captain in an anxious tone, “and if this squall lasts she may not spot us!”

The mate looked anxiously astern and to windward, but there were no signs of the warship, and it was still raining heavily. “I think we shall do it, sir!” he said, as he walked to the compass to give a direction to the man at the wheel.

A quarter of an hour passed, the minutes seeming like hours to those on the bridge, but still the Sea Foam forged ahead. At the end of this time the squall was beginning to clear—and the destroyer was nowhere visible.

“Have the lamps lit, Barter, and bring her back to south-east,” ordered the captain. “We’ve given her the slip.”

They had.

“That was a narrow squeak,” cried the captain, as he mopped his streaming face; “if it hadn’t been for that squall we’d have been collared! If she does sight us now, I expect she’ll take us for someone else, as we’ve got our lights burning.”

“Yes, sir, I thought she’d have us,” exclaimed Barter, “and I don’t fancy a spell in gaol. I suppose we’d get that for gun-running! It’s a pretty serious offence to be collared smuggling arms out of a country for another country at war!”

“Yes, it’d be prison and a fine, Barter. But it’s a paying game. We stand to get something pretty considerable between us if we can dump this lot in the Gulf of Sidra without being collared!”

Jim, seeing that the conversation was evidently not intended for his ears, and not wishing to be caught eavesdropping, slipped quietly down the bridge ladder and went below to the pantry, where the steward set him to prepare the table for the officers’ supper. Soon afterwards, leaving the second mate on deck, the captain and Barter came below and had their meal, and this being concluded Jim went to the cabins to tidy up for the night. Whilst turning down the second mate’s bed, he saw in a little bookshelf over the head of the bunk a small, thin book labelled “Atlas,” and knowing that the officer was on the bridge, and that he would not be disturbed, he abstracted the book from its resting-place and turned to the index at the end.

“Sidra, Gulf of (Africa), 31° O′ N. 19° O′ E.,” he read, and, having some slight knowledge of geography, he turned to the map of Africa to ascertain exactly where the place was. It did not take him long, for he soon found out that the place was on the north coast of Africa, in Tripoli, and that it lay just to the southward of a town marked on the map as Bengazi.

He knew that Italy and Turkey were at war, and he had read, on the rare occasions when he had looked at a newspaper in the public library, that fighting was going on in Tripoli. Putting two and two together, therefore, he came to the conclusion that the Sea Foam had on board a cargo of rifles and ammunition destined for the Turks, and in this he was quite correct. Putting the book back in its place, he left the cabin; and that night, as he lay in his bunk, he pondered over what he had discovered. The mate’s expression “gun-running” made him feel rather frightened; for he knew that it was a serious offence for the ships of a neutral State to supply arms to a belligerent country. If he had known the true state of affairs he would never have asked for a berth, but as he had, there was no way out of it, and he meant to see the thing through. After all, he thought, they could not very well put him in prison, and the idea of an adventure rather attracted him; so he determined to make the best of it. While thinking over the situation, he fell into a dreamless sleep which the violent movement of the ship did not disturb, and the next morning, when routed out by the steward to prepare the officers’ breakfast, he felt a very different being to the miserable youth who had joined the ship twenty-four hours before.

As the ship proceeded down Channel and out into the open Atlantic the weather steadily improved, and by the time Ushant had been rounded and the Bay of Biscay reached, there was nothing but a slight north-easterly swell, which, accompanied as it was by a clear blue sky and a brilliant sun, caused no inconvenience.

Nothing beyond the usual round of daily duties occurred to relieve the monotony of the voyage, and Jim found that, although he had to work hard while he was at it, he had plenty of leisure. He was having quite a good time; for, though the captain was inclined to be grumpy occasionally, neither he nor the officers abused or ill-treated Jim, so, on the whole, his lot was a happy one. The mate, seeing that he was far above the ordinary run of boys usually found in small steamers, took a liking to him from the very outset, and many a time Mr. Barter would go out of his way to explain things. In this way Jim soon picked up a smattering of sea-faring knowledge.

The old steward himself was a walking nautical encyclopædia, for he had been a seaman before a permanent lameness had forced him to undertake the lighter duties of steward. He was never tired of spinning yarns, and Jim never wearied of listening to them.

The ship steamed southward at ten knots along the coasts of Spain and Portugal, visible as a blue chain of hills far away to port. The weather was perfect, and Jim felt that life was well worth living.

One day, while clearing the table after the officers’ midday meal, he overheard a conversation between the captain and the mate.

“Barter,” the former said, “I’ve been thinking about that Customs boat. Do you think they had any notion of where we were going?”

“They must have had,” replied the other; “they wouldn’t have been so keen on stopping us, otherwise.”

“Well,” continued the skipper, “it’s quite possible that if they know we’re going through the Straits they’ll have wired to Gibraltar to send out a couple of cruisers or torpedo craft to stop us. How would it be to paint the ship another colour? This grey’s rather a ‘give away,’ it’s so uncommon.”

“Yes, we can do that all right, captain. I’ll get the hands on to it the first thing to-morrow morning; I’ve got plenty of black paint, and we can slap that over the hull and give her a black funnel with a red band, or something of the kind.”

“Yes, that’ll do. And paint the name out, too; but put in another, though; it would never do to have none at all.”

“All right, sir; will Caledonia do?” queried the mate, with a grin.

“Yes, that’s all right. We shall be passing through the Straits by daylight, so make a good job of it.”

The next morning all the available men were slung over the side with paint-pots and brushes, and in a short time the grey Sea Foam had been transformed into the Caledonia, a black ship with a black funnel with red band.

Early the next morning Cape Trafalgar was in sight, and a few hours later the ship had entered the Straits of Gibraltar, keeping well towards the African shore. She was about half-way through, when right ahead, and apparently stopped, were sighted two large cruisers, one with four funnels, lying directly in the steamer’s track.

“They’re both Britishers,” exclaimed the mate, who was on watch; “that four-funnelled chap’s one of the Aboukir class.”

“I wonder if they’re after us?” asked the skipper, feeling rather nervous; “lucky we gave her a lick of paint yesterday. Perhaps they won’t recognise us.”

“I don’t know so much about that!” answered Barter; “these Royal Navy chaps are pretty spry; I was in the Reserve myself once, and I know ’em.”

“Well, if they heave us to we’ll hoist the yellow flag and tell them we’re from Lisbon to Port Said. There’s plague at Lisbon, and they’d hardly dare board us, the regulations are so strict.”

The Sea Foam steamed on, and was soon close to the great man-of-war. No notice had apparently been taken of her, and the skipper and mate were congratulating themselves that they were not going to be stopped when the cruiser suddenly fired a blank gun to leeward, and at the same time a string of signal flags fluttered out from her fore masthead.

“Hang it,” growled the captain, “there’s no mistaking that!” And as he spoke he walked to the engine-room telegraph and rang down “Stop!”

“O.S.C., I.O.X.,” muttered the mate, rapidly turning over the papers of the signal box to find out the meaning of the flags.

“Heave to. I wish to communicate,” he said to the captain, when he had found the place.

“Hoist the yellow flag at the fore!” shouted the latter; and even as he spoke a boat from the man-of-war was half-way across the stretch of water dividing the two ships.

“What ship is that?” shouted a midshipman, as the cutter approached.

“Caledonia; Lisbon to Port Said; general cargo,” answered the captain in reply.

As if to verify his statement, the boat pulled under the stern, and there the officer read the name and port of registry, which, luckily, had been altered the day previous to “Caledonia, London.”

“Hope he doesn’t spot our new paint!” ejaculated Barter nervously, as the boat pulled forward again.

“All right, sir, I’ll go and report,” shouted the officer, whose suspicions had apparently not been aroused. “You haven’t by any chance seen a grey steamer called the Sea Foam, have you?”

“No, haven’t seen anything of her,” replied the captain, turning his face to hide his smiles.

“All right, you can proceed on your voyage,” came the reply.

“Thank heaven!” exclaimed the skipper, as he put the engine-room telegraph to full speed ahead, and motioned to the helmsman to resume his original course; “that’s our third escape! I wonder how many more we shall have.”

“You’ve got the whole Italian fleet to dodge yet, sir,” remarked Barter.

Soon afterwards the speed of the Sea Foam was increased to fifteen knots, for this would bring the ship to her destination about 11 p.m. on the fourth night after leaving the Straits.

The time passed without incident, and the last day of the voyage broke fine and clear. From daylight the captain and mate were on the bridge gazing anxiously ahead for the columns of smoke that would betoken the presence of men-of-war. They had their meals brought up to them by Jim, and the boy himself could not help feeling his spirits rise as the ship forged ahead and no warships were seen. The hours passed rapidly, and at length the sun set in the western horizon in a blaze of scarlet and orange, but still the Sea Foam steamed along at fifteen knots. All her lights were extinguished, and there was nothing to proclaim her whereabouts except the phosphorescent welter churned up by the screw, and a ruddy glow at the funnel-top.

The captain and Barter were still keeping their weary vigil on the bridge, looking ahead through the darkness, when suddenly Jim, who was on deck, saw a rapidly-moving light about a mile away on the starboard side of the ship. It was moving fast in an opposite direction to the steamer. Rushing on to the bridge, he seized Mr. Barter by the arm and drew his attention to it.

The mate snatched the binoculars, and after gazing at the light for a second or two he exclaimed to the captain:

“There’s a destroyer out there, sir. No, there’s more than one—two, four; I can count six, sir—steaming very fast in single file.”

“I wonder if they’ve spotted us?” gasped the captain.

“I don’t think so,” replied the other, “they’re moving away.”

“Lucky there’s no moon and it’s a dark night!”

“They must have been keeping a pretty rotten look out, though,” rejoined Barter; “Watson, here, spotted them all right.”

The destroyers vanished in the gloom astern, and the Sea Foam steamed rapidly on towards her destination. Ten o’clock came, but no more men-of-war were sighted, and about half an hour later the skipper, pointing ahead, suddenly exclaimed:

“We’re getting close, Barter; I can see the land ahead and on both bows. Get the anchor ready, and get a man along with a lead.”

The dark shadow of the land was now distinctly visible, and, with the engines eased to “dead slow,” the steamer crept cautiously ahead.

“And a quarter-nine!” came the long-drawn-out cry from the man with the lead. “A quarter less eight!” came the next sounding, a minute later.

The water was shoaling rapidly, and as the land was evidently getting close the ship was stopped, and the captain hailed the forecastle to let go the anchor. The rusty monster fell with a splash and a rattle of cable—the journey was over.

Going to the end of the bridge, the captain then fired a blue light, and its appearance was the signal for a chorus of yells a short distance off on the starboard beam.

“They’re there all right, then!” he ejaculated; “I arranged with the fellow in London to be here at eleven o’clock to-night, and we’ve just done it! Hark at ’em shouting!”

The howling drew closer, and before long three large Arab dhows stole into the circle of light and made fast alongside. An officer in Turkish uniform clambered on board, and going to the bridge he wrung the captain by the hand.

“You haf arrived, my friend!” he exclaimed in broken English, “with many good rifles? Aha! Haf you seen those Italian ships?”

“Yes, we saw ’em all right,” said the skipper, “but they didn’t see us!”

“That is good!” replied the other. “I haf brought tree dhow, an’ plenty men. Are you ready to unload now?”

“Yes, quite ready.” The hatch covers had been removed and the derricks topped during the afternoon; and, even as he spoke, the winches started their rattle as the unloading commenced.

There was no need of concealment now, and every soul in the ship, Jim and the steward included, worked with a will. Case after case containing rifles and ammunition was slung over the side into the dhows alongside, and at length, at three o’clock the following morning, the steamer’s holds were cleared of her cargo.

Just as the first signs of dawn appeared in the east the Sea Foam weighed her anchor and steamed seawards, and soon afterwards the coast was out of sight, and the vessel was steaming placidly homewards through a calm sea with no vessels in sight.

. . . . . .

Nothing more remains to be said, except that in due course the ship arrived in London, where the captain drew the money due to him for the successful enterprise. Each member of the crew received a substantial bonus, and Jim, to his surprise, was included in the award.

“Here you are, my boy,” said the skipper, as he handed him the money. “You’ve been a good lad, and you deserve it. I’m chucking the sea now, but if you are ever stranded, come to me.”

“Thank you, sir!” answered Jim, with tears of gratitude in his eyes; and after saying good-bye to the mate and steward, he left the ship for good. He could not help feeling a pang of regret, for in the short time he had been on board he had grown fond of the ship and her officers; but shouldering the bag containing his scanty belongings, he trudged citywards.

The money he had received so unexpectedly enabled him to buy a third-class passage to Australia, where in due time he joined his uncle. He is now employed on a sheep farm, and is in a fair way to doing well for himself, but he will never forget his one and only experience of gun-running in the Mediterranean.

“Gude marnin’ to ye, John Marsh,” croaked old Thomas Wiles, looking over the side of the little wooden quay and watching the fisherman in the boat busy with his lines.

“Marnin’, feyther!” replied Marsh cheerily, looking up at the old man with a pleasant smile. “What d’ye make o’ th’ weather?”

“Middlin’ fine, me son,” answered the ancient, taking the pipe out of his mouth and looking up at the sky. “Middlin’ fine. Sou’-westerly breeze’ll hold. We’ll have a drap o’ rain, maybe, but nothin’ much, I’m thinkin’.”

Wiles, aged eighty, was the oldest man in the village of Bembridge, in the Isle of Wight, and being an old man-of-war’s man was generally regarded as the local know-all on all matters nautical. The fishermen of the place used to flock to the Barleycorn tavern to hear the words of wisdom which fell from the old seaman’s lips, and though they did sometimes laugh at him behind his back, and call him an old croaker, it must be admitted that his prognostications regarding the weather usually turned out to be correct, and that, more often than not, they took his advice. He had served in the Navy “way back in th’ ’sixties,” as he himself called it, and though it was now 1805, and he was firmly convinced that “th’ Sarvice was gwine to th’ dawgs; nothin’ like ’twas when I was in th’ ole Andromeeda,” he never tired of watching the frigates and line-of-battle ships when they sometimes came to an anchor in St. Helen’s Roads.

He watched Marsh for some minutes without speaking.

“Be ye gwine out this marnin’?” he inquired at length.

“Yes, feyther,” answered the fisherman with a nod. “Me an’ Tom here,” he pointed to his fourteen-year-old son, who was hard at work baiting some lines. “Me an’ Tom has our livin’ t’earn.”

The old wiseacre on the jetty shook his head in disapproval.

“Bean’t ye afeerd o’ bein’ copped by them Frenchies?” he asked. “Them privateers wot got ole Tom Martin t’other day?”

“Afeerd, feyther,” laughed Marsh. “No, I bean’t afeerd, I reckon, but I doan’t want to see th’ inside o’ one o’ them prisons. Lor’ bless me, though, when I wus in the Sarvice along o’ Lard Nelson, we allus said each man was wuth three on ’em froggies!” He spat over the side to show his contempt.

Marsh himself had served in the Navy, but had retired some years before to eke out a scanty livelihood by fishing, and though his profits were not large, they had sufficed to keep his wife and two children. Tom, his eldest son, had been used to his father’s boat for the last four years, and always accompanied him on his expeditions to his favourite fishing ground near the Owers shoal off Selsey Bill, and as the boy had made up his mind to enter the Navy when he was old enough, there was no doubt that his knowledge of boat work and his general acquaintance with the sea would help him to become a prime seaman in His Majesty’s Fleet when his turn came.

“Well, me son,” resumed Wiles after a lengthy silence. “Maybe ye ain’t afeerd on ’em, but mark me words, ye’ll sing a diff’rent tune if they cops ye an’ claps ye an’ Tom in one o’ them prisons. The grub’s crool bad!” The old man shook his head knowingly, and stumped off up the jetty on his way back to the Barleycorn.

There was no doubt about it that Marsh was running a grave risk, for it was 1805, and war time, and the Channel swarmed with the enemy’s privateers. The latter, as a general rule, were luggers varying in size between fifty and seventy tons, and were used, in time of peace, as fishing craft. Now, however, as war had taken away their legitimate vocation, the owners of these chasse-marées had converted them into privateers by fitting them with small guns and manning them with large crews armed to the teeth. They were extraordinarily fast, and would swoop down on any defenceless vessels they came across, and carry them off from under the very noses of the British frigates and sloops-of-war stationed in the Channel. Even the merchant ships in the home-coming convoys, protected though they were by men-of-war, were not safe from capture, while the hostile luggers would often approach the English coast in broad daylight and harry the hapless fishing craft within a mile or two of the shore. The crews would be captured, the prizes looted and burnt, and then the chasse-marées would clap on all sail and make off, trusting to their superior speed to escape. They generally succeeded in doing so, in spite of the vigilance of the men-of-war, and the consequence was many English fishermen found themselves in French prisons, while many more, unwilling to face the risk of losing all they possessed, were thrown out of employment and stayed ashore with starvation staring them in the face. Marsh, however, had had good luck up to date, and had never so much as sighted a privateer, and although he fully realised the risk he was running in continuing his fishing, he was not to be put off, in spite of old Wiles and his dismal warnings. “Needs must where the devil drives,” and his occupation was the only thing he could rely upon to keep his family and himself from absolute penury.

Soon afterwards, therefore, the Speedwell had slipped her moorings and was sailing seawards with the fair south-westerly breeze. She was a handy little cutter-rigged craft of about five tons, and carried a large spread of canvas which gave her a good turn of speed in anything like a wind, and by noon she had reached her destination. The sails were furled, and the anchor dropped, and after the midday meal father and son were soon busy fishing with lines.

The fish were biting well, and by the latter part of the afternoon the little wooden tank amidships was all but filled with pollack, ling, whiting, and many other varieties of fish.

“Are ye thinkin’ o’ goin’ back home this a’ternoon, Dad?” asked Tom, rebaiting a hook and throwing it overboard.

“No, son, don’t think so,” answered the fisherman. “Fush is bitin’ so well that I think we’d best put the lines out at sundown, an’ stay out all night. We’ll up anchor an’ go back home to-morrow marnin’.”

Tom was not at all averse to the idea, for he had often undergone a similar experience, and really, in spite of their narrowness, the lockers in the cabin of the cutter were quite comfortable to sleep upon. He rather liked the idea of cooking his own supper, too, and he was so accustomed to the sea that the gentle rolling of the little ship did not disturb him in the slightest.

The wind had been lulling all through the afternoon, and towards sunset it died away completely. Soon afterwards the sun sank to rest in a blaze of yellow and orange which predicted a breezy day for the morrow, while the sea presented a glassy shining surface only disturbed by a gentle swell rolling in from the south-westward. Overhead, in the darkening blue of the sky, scattered bunches of mares’ tails hung motionless in the still air, and sitting in the stern sucking at his pipe, instinctively swaying his body in rhythm to the gentle movement of the boat, Marsh looked up at them.

“There’s a fair capful o’ wind about yet,” he remarked pensively. “That yaller on the ’orizon an’ them mares’ tails shows this calm won’t last.”

“Will it blow harder than it did to-day, Dad?” asked the boy.

“No,” returned the fisherman, shaking his head. “’Bout the same, I reckon. Son,” he added, “ye’d best get th’ night lines laid now, afore it’s dark. They’re ready in th’ tub forrard.”

The boy clambered into the dinghy made fast astern, and sculled off to do the job. Twenty minutes saw the lines laid, and when Tom returned he found his father had prepared their supper. After finishing the meal they hoisted the light on the forestay, and then, as darkness had fallen, retired to the cabin and were soon stretched out on the lockers in the little den. No sounds broke the stillness of the night except the gentle lapping of the water against the side. The cutter rolled a little on the swell, but the movement did not disturb the slumber of her weary inmates, and ten minutes later, tired out after their day’s work, they were both fast asleep.

There was no such thing as a clock or watch on board the Speedwell—timepieces in those days were expensive luxuries; but Marsh, like most seamen, could wake himself at any hour he wanted to, and at four o’clock the next morning he was on deck. The first gleams of daylight were just appearing through a heavy mist which overhung the surface of the water, but true to his prophecy of the night before the breeze had again risen, and was gaining strength every minute.

“Rouse out, Tom!” he shouted, going to the hatch leading to the cabin where the boy was still fast asleep. “Come up and give us a hand to get th’ mains’l on her. When we’ve done that we’ll get th’ lines in, an’ start off home!”

“Coming, Dad!” answered the sleepy Tom, rolling off his narrow locker and feeling about for his sea-boots, the only portion of his attire he had discarded on turning in. Within a couple of minutes he had joined his father above, and after some trouble, for it was still very dark, they had hoisted the mainsail, which flapped in the ever-freshening breeze.

“Come on, son,” said Marsh, when this operation was finished. “We’d best weigh th’ lines now.”

He went aft to haul in the dinghy, but hardly had he taken a couple of paces when Tom stopped dead. “Ssh!” he whispered, pointing out in the mist on the port quarter.

“What ails ’e, son?” asked his father in a low undertone.

“Ssh!” hissed the lad, cocking his ear. “I heered somethin’ over there.”

“What wus it?” asked Marsh.

The answer was not long in coming, for hardly were the words out of his mouth when the unmistakable creaking of blocks and the sound of conversation broke the stillness of the morning.

They looked intently in the direction from which the noises came, but so far nothing could be seen, but every instant the light was getting stronger, and the mist was gradually dispersing as the breeze freshened. The voices came nearer and nearer, and then the fisherman suddenly felt his heart leap into his mouth.

“Tom, they’re Frenchies!” he gasped. “Hark to their chatterin’! They’ll have heard this mains’l o’ our’n slattin’ in th’ wind!”

“What ’ud we best do, Dad?” queried the boy nervously, for he had never seen an enemy at close quarters, and did not exactly relish the idea of meeting one.

“Go down to th’ cabin, son,” ordered the father, “an’ get th’ axe. We’ll have to cut the cable!”

“What about th’ lines?”

“Let ’em go,” said the man in an undertone, gazing anxiously through the murk. “Go below an’ fetch th’ axe. Doan’t ’e make any noise, now!”

The boy did as he was told, and creeping down the ladder soon reappeared with the weapon, which he handed to his father.

“Look ’e here, lad,” whispered Marsh. “Take th’ helm. I’m going forrard to cut th’ cable. We’ll get th’ fores’l up after.”

Louder and louder became the sounds, and then a dark blurred shape began to slide out of the mist. It was approaching fast, whatever it was, and creeping forward the fisherman stood ready in the bows with his axe poised.

Tom jammed the tiller over, and as the Speedwell’s bows began to pay off, his father brought the broad-bladed weapon down on the taut cable with a crunch which completely severed it.

But it was too late, for they had been seen, and before the little craft had gathered way the blurred outline of the mast astern had resolved itself into the shape of one of the dreaded luggers, and at the same instant a loud shout rang out from her direction. Marsh, having freed the cutter, jumped to the fore halliards and hoisted the foresail, and then clambered aft into the stern.

“She must ha’ seen us!” he remarked breathlessly, noticing that the lugger had altered her course slightly.

“Must have,” replied Tom, feeling very anxious. “How fur off is she?”

“Not more’n a hundred yards,” said his father. “I doan’t think she’s comin’ up, though,” he added.

The Speedwell, with her mainsail and foresail set, was apparently holding her own, for the shadow behind her did not become more distinct. Presently she was dashing along with her lee gunwale perilously near the water’s edge, but the lugger did not seem to be gaining, and for a moment Marsh thought he still had a chance of escaping.

Presently they ran out of the fog bank into clear daylight, for the sun had now risen, but looking astern they soon saw the bowsprit and then the black hull and three tanned lugsails of the chasse-marée following dead in their wake.

“I’m afeerd we’re collared this time, Tom!” exclaimed Marsh, as he watched the lugger dashing along with the spray smoking over her weather gunwale. “Yon’s a faster craft than our’n!”

He was right, for now the stranger was undoubtedly closing, and a few seconds later a ruffianly-looking individual, clad in a blue jersey and a long red cap, clambered forward on board the lugger and shouted something in his own language. His words could not be heard on account of the wind, but there was no mistaking his gestures. He was telling the Speedwell to heave to, or to take the consequences.

“Heave to be jiggered!” exclaimed Marsh indignantly, shaking his fist at his pursuer. “I’m not a-goin’ to pipe down to a set o’ pirates like that! Look e’ here, son, we must get th’ tops’l on her, it’ll give us a bit more speed. Lord knows we’ll want it,” he added, with an apprehensive glance astern.

No sooner said than done, and after a certain amount of difficulty, for the breeze was fresh, they succeeded in getting the gaff topsail above the mainsail. Feeling the extra canvas the cutter leapt through the water faster than before, but they had lost ground during the manœuvre, and the Frenchman was now barely fifty yards astern.

It could now be seen that she carried four small guns each side, while crowded on her decks were over thirty armed men. Several of them were clustered in the bows, and the morning sun could be seen glinting on the barrels of muskets, and before long another man rose to his feet and hailed, in broken English this time, for the Speedwell to heave to and surrender.

Marsh shook his fist in reply, but hardly had he done so when a ragged volley of musketry broke out from the lugger. Some of the bullets came perilously close, while one scored a long weal in the wood of the bulwark close to which Tom was standing. He ducked involuntarily, a thing which many a brave man has done the first time he has been under fire.

“Lie down flat on th’ deck, me son,” said his father, with a smile on his weather-beaten face. “There ain’t no call for ye to get exposin’ yerself.”

“All right, Dad,” said the boy. “But can’t we do anythin’ to go a bit faster? She’s gainin’ on us!”

“I dunno,” answered Marsh. “P’raps if we cut away th’ boat astern it’ll help us along a bit. Get th’ axe an’ cut her adrift!”

Tom cut the dinghy free, and as she was floating astern another volley rang out from the lugger. This time the muskets had been better aimed, for the bullets hummed through the air closer to the cutter’s deck, but still no damage was done.

“I wish we had a musket or two to fire on th’ swabs!” growled Marsh.

But his wish was useless, for beyond the axe the cutter had no weapons of any kind on board, and all the time the chasse-marée drew closer and closer. It was lucky she could not use her guns, for a discharge from them would have blown the Englishman out of the water; but even as it was, affairs were bad enough, for the lugger’s crew had opened up an independent fire, and the range was so short that the flying missiles were coming closer and closer every second.

They lay flat on the deck, where they were protected to some extent by the low bulwarks; but though pursuer and pursued were both travelling fast, the lugger was coming up hand over fist. Presently she was no more than twenty yards astern, and as a sudden gust heeled the Speedwell over Marsh rose to his knees to get a better purchase on the tiller. The moment he did so more shots came from the lugger, and to Tom’s horror he suddenly saw his father relinquish his hold on the helm and clap a hand to his left shoulder.

“Dad! Dad!” he cried. “Have they hit ye?”

“Yes, th’ frog-eatin’ pirates!” groaned the fisherman, with the blood trickling down his arm. “Lucky ’tis only through th’ shoulder. Take th’ tiller, son,” he added, grinding his teeth in pain.

Tom, crouching low, steered the boat as best he could while sheltering himself from the flying bullets. He could do nothing to help his father, who had sunk to the deck more or less unconscious from the pain of his wound, for he had his work cut out in keeping the cutter on a steady course. But all the time the chasse-marée was drawing closer, and at last, glancing astern, the boy saw her short bowsprit barely ten yards off the Speedwell’s quarter.

For a moment his heart failed him, for the lugger was sailing close to the wind and evidently intended to run up on the cutter’s weather quarter and then board, for several red-capped ruffians, armed with cutlasses and pistols, were standing by her foremast, ready to jump the moment the vessels touched.

Tom glanced at his father, undecided what to do, but then he was suddenly struck by a brilliant idea, and putting all his weight on the tiller jammed it hard down. The Speedwell’s head flew round into the wind with a rattling of ropes and a slapping of canvas, but though the wrench when the heavy boom came over nearly carried away the mast, the rigging held, and leaving the boat to steer herself for a minute, the boy jumped forward to secure the fore sheet. Muskets and pistols were fired at him, but he accomplished it in safety, and clambering aft again took his place at the helm.

Putting about a cutter-rigged craft like the Speedwell was an easy manœuvre enough, but with the lugger, who had to lower and dip her three lugsails every time she tacked it was by no means so simple. The Frenchmen, moreover, were not expecting Tom’s jibe, and dashed on, with her crew yelling with mad excitement.

Though the Speedwell was now heading out to sea with her stern pointing at the lugger’s broadside, the guns of the latter were not fired. Probably they were not loaded, and lucky it was that they were not.

Soon the boy heard the shouts and the slatting of canvas as the chasse-marée went about, but by the time she was in pursuit again the handy little cutter had gained at least two hundred yards. Tom’s course, however, was now carrying him out into the English Channel, while the Isle of Wight, still shrouded in a pall of mist, was somewhere away on his port quarter. He determined, nevertheless, to wait until his pursuer should be close before attempting to go about again.

Presently the fisherman, noticing a change in the movement, opened his eyes and looked up.

“What have ye done, lad?” he asked feebly.

Tom explained.

“Good lad!” exclaimed his father. “If ye keep on goin’ about every time she comes alongside o’ us, p’raps we’ll weather her arter all. How fur astarn is she now?”

“’Bout two hundred yards,” said the boy, with a glance over his shoulder.

The lugger, however, was still gaining, and within twenty minutes was close astern again. As before, she approached on the cutter’s weather quarter, her men standing by ready to board, while occasional musket shots whistled over Tom’s head.

Nearer and nearer she came, until Marsh, thinking his son was waiting too long, raised himself on his uninjured arm.

“Now’s yer time, son!” he shouted, seeing the chasse-marée’s bowsprit getting nearer and nearer. “I’ll take the tiller, jump forrard an’ stan’ by th’ fore sheet.”

He reached out his uninjured hand and jammed the helm hard down, and once more the Speedwell came up head to wind with her canvas flapping in the breeze. The lugger’s bowsprit was perilously close, almost overlapping the cutter’s quarter, but Tom, who was just about to dash forward to readjust the fore sheet, was suddenly seized with a brilliant inspiration. He seized the axe and made a wild slash at the lashing securing the lugger’s jib to the end of her bowsprit, now within easy reach. It was done on the spur of the moment, but his eye was sure, and the keen edge of his weapon bit through the tough rope.

The Frenchmen were instantly thrown into utter confusion. The jib, no longer stayed forward, flew aft in a cloud of canvas and precipitated two red-capped Frenchmen into the water, while the man at the helm, seeing his companions struggling in the sea, relinquished his hold on the wheel, and endeavoured to save them. The lugger promptly came up into the wind with her sails thrashing against her masts; the air became blue with “Sacrés!” and wild shouts of rage, and in spite of his danger Tom could not help chuckling. It was fully ten minutes before order was restored on board the foreigner, and by the time she had repaired her damage, picked up her men, and was once more in chase of her nimble quarry, the latter was over a mile ahead.

About half a mile beyond the Speedwell was a bank of low-lying fog, and Tom was looking at it and wondering whether or not it would hide him from his pursuer, when he heard the sullen boom of a gun from the southward. At first he could see nothing to account for it, but presently

he noticed the dim shape of a large ship emerging out of a pall of mist about two miles away to port.

The lugger had seen the stranger, for she had altered her course and was flying off to seaward. The big ship gradually sailed into view, and once in the sunlight the boy saw from her towering canvas and black and yellow chequered sides that she was a man-of-war.

“We’re saved!” he yelled excitedly, as a puff of smoke left the ship’s side, and a round shot splashed into the water midway between her and the chasse-marée.

“What’s that, son?” queried Marsh, sitting up. “What did yer sing out?”

“There’s a big ship firing at the Frenchie!” repeated the boy delightedly.

The fisherman looked over the gunwale.

“Snakes!” he exclaimed an instant later. “Yon’s th’ Amazon. See the White Ensun at her peak!”

The frigate fired again, but once more the shot pitched short, and from the way the lugger was winging seaward it seemed that she was travelling faster than the man-of-war, and that she would make good her escape after all.

“Set yer royals! Set yer royals!” muttered Marsh, seeing that the frigate was under top-gallant sails. “You won’t catch her else! Ah!” he exclaimed an instant later, when, as if in answer to his suggestion, three clouds of canvas descended simultaneously on the man-of-war’s masts. “That’s better, capten!”

The light sails were sheeted home and hoisted, but even with their assistance the frigate was no match for her nimble quarry.

“There she goes again!” sang out Tom, as another tongue of red flame and a cloud of white smoke leapt out from the man-of-war’s side. “Hurrah!” he yelled, waving his hat in his excitement. “That’s done it!”

It had, for the foremast of the chasse-marée had suddenly toppled overboard with its sail. It was a lucky shot, for the range was great, but the thirty-two pound ball had shorn off the mast close to the deck, and had effectually stopped the lugger’s progress, though she still strove to escape with the sails on her fore and main masts.

“Won’t do, me son,” murmured the fisherman, looking at her. “Yer copped all right!”

He was perfectly correct, for the Amazon was now sailing two feet to her one, and ten minutes later had hove to close alongside the Frenchman. They saw the smoke of a volley of musketry; but it was the enemy’s last effort, for a minute or two later the tricolour fluttered down from her peak. She had surrendered.

The Speedwell still held on her course for Bembridge, and when the frigate had transferred her prisoners she took her crippled prize in tow, and steered up towards Spithead. She came booming along at a great speed, far faster than the cutter, and half an hour later the two vessels were close alongside.

Tom took off his hat and cheered as she passed; an answering yell came back from the man-of-war’s men, and shortly afterwards an officer with a speaking trumpet jumped up on to the white hammock cloths and stood balancing himself with one arm hooked round a backstay.

“Cutter, ahoy!” he bellowed.

Tom waved his hand in reply.

“We’ve captured the Trois Sœurs of Saint Malo. Eight guns and forty men. She very nearly had you! D’you want any help?”

“Tell ’em no,” growled Marsh; “this prick o’ mine can wait till we get back home.”

“No, sir,” shouted the boy.

“Right!” came back the answer. “What’s the name of the cutter and her owner?”

“The Speedwell of Bembridge, sir,” replied Tom. “John Marsh, owner!”

“Right! Good-bye! Glad to have been able to help you!” The frigate drove ahead out of earshot, and the figure in blue and gold leapt down on deck.

A couple of hours later the Speedwell arrived at Bembridge, and the little town, as may well be imagined, was thrown into a state of frantic excitement when the story of her narrow escape became public property.

Tom became a sort of public hero, and one day about a fortnight later, when his father was convalescent, for the bullet had broken no bones, they were once more at work in the cutter moored up alongside the jetty.

“What did I tell ’e, John Marsh?” said the well-known voice of old Wiles from above. “Didn’t I tell ’e as ’ow th’ Frenchies was cruisin’ around?”

“Aye, feyther,” replied the fisherman, busy putting patches in the sails through which the French bullets had driven holes. “But we wusn’t copped, all th’ same!”

“It wurn’t none o’ yer fault, then,” retorted the old gentleman. “If it ’adn’t bin fur that son o’ yourn ye’d a’ tasted t’inside of a French gaol. I knows!” he concluded, wagging his head wisely.

“Never mind, feyther,” laughed John Marsh. “We wusn’t copped, an’ Tom did save th’ Speedwell. Didn’t ’e, son?” he added, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Tom merely blushed and felt a fool.

It was a dirty night; there was no possible mistake about that, and Sub-Lieutenant Patrick Munro, R.N., of H.M. T.B.D. Tavy, crouching for shelter behind the canvas weather screens on the bridge, felt supremely miserable.

For one thing, he was rather seasick, for the destroyer, well out in mid-Channel, was punching her way westward in the teeth of a rapidly rising south-westerly gale. No sailor likes a gale; those in destroyers hate them.

The sea was big, and every now and then as the Tavy plunged her nose into the heart of an advancing wave, masses of solid water came pouring over the forecastle and sheets of spray went flying high over the bridge.

The night was very dark and the sky overcast. The wind cut like a knife, and in spite of his oilskins, sou’-wester, sea-boots, and a profusion of woollen mufflers, the sub was nearly wet through and chilled to the very marrow.

He was keeping the middle watch—midnight till 4 a.m., and now, at 1.30, he had still another two and a half hours before he would be relieved by the gunner and could retire to the warm bunk in his cabin.

Even then it seemed doubtful if he would get any sleep, for the Tavy rolled and pitched abominably. Moreover, at odd moments she had a playful habit of throwing her stern high into the air on top of a wave and of shaking it like a dog’s tail. It was disconcerting, to say the least of it.

The destroyer was by herself, and not a solitary gleam of light was in sight anywhere. Somewhere over the horizon to the northward lay the south coast of England; but as it was war time all shore lights had long since been extinguished. They afforded too good a guide to hostile submarines.

The war had been in progress for well over eighteen months at the time of which we write, and neither the Tavy nor her sub-lieutenant had seen a shot fired in anger. They had come across plenty of mines, floating and otherwise, and on one occasion had seen a merchant ship blown up and sunk and had rescued her crew.

Once they had sighted a Zeppelin, miles away on the horizon until it looked like an overgrown, animated sausage; while many, many times they had been sent to sea to assist in “strafing” hostile submarines. But they had never “strafed” any, had never fired a gun or a torpedo in real earnest; whereat the hearts of all the officers and men had grown sick, and they envied those of their comrades who had been lucky enough to be in action in the Dardanelles or North Sea.

The weather had grown steadily worse as the night wore on. They had been steaming twenty knots to start with, but on account of the sea, had had to ease down first to fifteen, and then to twelve, lest the masses of heavy water coming over the bows should strain the ship and carry things away.

The lieutenant in command, Travers, was vainly endeavouring to get a little sleep on the cushioned locker in the charthouse underneath the bridge. He had been on deck till 12.30 a.m., and his last orders to Munro were to the effect that he was to be called at four o’clock or if any lights were sighted.

The time wore on, and towards two o’clock, as the sub was beginning to feel a little better and was wondering whether he were bold enough to manage some cocoa from his vacuum flask, he heard the signalman on watch utter a sudden exclamation.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“I thought I saw a flash o’ some kind on the ’orizon a little on the port bow, sir!” the man replied excitedly, peering in the direction named.

“What sort of flash?”

“It looked like a gun, sir.”

They both gazed anxiously out over the water, dodging the sheets of spray as they came flying over the bows, but not a thing was visible.

“If it had been a gun,” the sub pointed out at last, “surely we should have heard it? The place where you thought you saw the flash is almost dead to wind’ard.”

“I don’t rightly know, sir,” the signalman answered. “Maybe we’d not hear it if it was a small gun.”

Hardly had he spoken when a sharp spurt of ruby flame broke out from the darkness right ahead. It was unmistakably the flash of a gun, apparently about five miles away, and the sub strained his ears for the report. He heard nothing except the wash of the breaking seas.

But an instant later the fiery trail of a rocket cleft the air in exactly the same spot. It rose in a curve, and finally burst in a shower of stars which seemed to illuminate the sea for miles round.

The glare died away, but not before he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark shape of a vessel. She carried no lights of any kind, so far as he could see, and what sort of craft she was he could not determine. But she was a ship of some kind, he could swear to that.

“Signalman, go and tell the captain!” he ordered excitedly. “Messenger, warn the guns’ crews to stand by!”

The two men departed on their respective errands.

Travers was on the bridge in less than five seconds, and when the sub had told him what he had seen he went to the engine-room telegraph and increased the revolutions of the engines to fifteen knots.

“I’ll shove her on at fifteen,” he remarked. “Can’t go more than that in this sea. By the way, how far off did you say she was?”

“About five miles, sir,” the sub and signalman said together.

“Right,” nodded the skipper. “In twenty minutes we should be up to her, whoever she is. Sub, have the men warned, and get the guns and torpedo tubes manned. I don’t expect for an instant she’s anything but an innocent tramp, but we’d better be ready. These Huns are up to all sorts of dodges, foul and otherwise.”

“But what about the gun flashes, sir?” the sub-lieutenant queried.

“M’yes,” said Travers slowly. “The flashes certainly complicate matters. I don’t expect people go blazing off guns in the middle of the night for the good of their health. Someone must be pretty scared, I should think. However, have everything ready.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The men, sleeping in their clothes, as was their habit at sea, came tumbling up, but less than thirty seconds later there was another development when the wireless operator clambered on to the bridge.

“I wants th’ captain!” he exclaimed, ducking his head as a whiff of spray came rattling against the weather screens, like a volley of small shot.

“Here I am,” said Travers. “What’s the matter?”

“About a minute ago, sir, I heard a ship making S.O.S. by wireless! She made it twice, and then suddenly stopped! There’s somethin’ else makin’ signals, too, but I can’t make head nor tail o’ what she’s sayin’! There’s somethin’ happenin’, sir?” He seemed very excited.

“Phew!” whistled the skipper joyfully. “Don’t say we’re going to have a run for our money at last! How far off d’you think the signals came from, Sparks?”

“They were comin’ in strong, sir. I should say a matter o’ ten mile or less.”

“Right. Go down and keep your ears glued to your receivers, and if you hear any more, let me know at once. By George, sub!” he added, rubbing his hands and turning to Munro. “There appears to be dirty work going on somewhere, eh?”

“There does, sir,” the sub agreed.

The time seemed to pass very slowly as the Tavy forged ahead. Five minutes passed ... ten minutes ... a quarter of an hour.

“We ought to be barely a mile off her by now if she’s stationary!” murmured Travers disappointedly. “But I’m blowed if I can see a sign of anything!”

Twenty minutes ... twenty-five minutes. Still nothing in sight.

The skipper growled something under his breath.

“Where on earth’s she got to?” he exclaimed. “Shove her on at seventeen, sub. I think she’ll stand it.” He was getting impatient.

Munro turned the handle of the telegraph until the dial showed the requisite number of revolutions.

The destroyer moved on, making heavier weather of it as she gathered speed, but it was not until thirty-five minutes had elapsed that the lieutenant made a muffled remark, wiped his binoculars carefully, and applied them to his eyes.

“I’ve spotted her!” he cried. “She seems to be steering to the south-west’ard, and we’re overhauling her pretty fast! Starboard a little, cox’n! Steady so!”

Before very long the dark hull of the stranger was visible with the naked eye. She seemed a fairly large ship, and was apparently about a couple of miles off and steaming twelve knots. The Tavy was gaining fast.

“Make a signal telling her to stop!” Travers ordered. “Then ask her name and where she’s bound.”

The signalman pressed the key of his flashing lamp in the longs and shorts of the Morse code. He did it for quite ten minutes without stopping, but no reply was forthcoming. At the end of this time the two ships were barely a mile apart, and unless the steamer, now plainly visible as a craft with one straight funnel and two masts, was keeping an extremely bad look out, she must have seen the destroyer’s signals. But no, nothing happened.

“These chaps deserve to be sunk!” Travers grunted disgustedly. “I’ll put a shot across her bows; that’ll wake her up!”

He leant over the bridge rail and gave the necessary orders to the men at the gun below.

As the weapon was discharged there came a brilliant flash and a loud report, and presently the plugged shell pitched into the water several hundred yards ahead of the steamer.

It was a summons she could not afford to neglect, and putting her helm over, she turned round in her tracks and steered straight for the destroyer.

“Tell her to stop!” Travers ordered again, noticing that she was still moving through the water and approaching fast.

Hardly were the words out of his mouth when the fun began.

The steamer sheered abruptly to port, dense clouds of black smoke pouring from her funnel as she increased speed, and then, when she was barely half a mile off, the brilliant red flash of a gun broke out from her side.

Those on board the destroyer heard the report, and a shell screamed through the air like an infuriated demon and raised its spray fountain some distance beyond them. Before it had pitched, other gun flashes were sparkling up and down the stranger’s side. She was a merchant ship from her build and appearance, but was evidently powerfully armed. She was firing furiously.

The attack was quite unexpected, but the Tavy was not unprepared.

“Open fire on her!” Travers yelled hoarsely, dashing to the telegraphs and jamming them over to “Full speed.” “Sub, I’m going to run past her! Nip down on deck and stand by to fire the foremost tube when your sights come on!”

The Tavy’s guns roared out in reply, and albeit the violent motion of the ship and the water breaking on board made the shooting rather wild, the shells seemed to be pitching somewhere near the target.

The steamer still fired rapidly, until the air was full of an awful, horrible whining; but at first her shooting was not too good. Perhaps the destroyer offered a very small target, or perhaps the stranger’s guns’ crews were not very expert; at any rate, most of the projectiles seemed to be falling harmlessly into the sea about two hundred yards beyond and astern of the Tavy.

The whole affair was over in less time than it takes to read a description of it. The ships were approaching each other fast on parallel and opposite courses, and would pass at a distance of about eight hundred yards.

The hostile shells began to fall closer. Travers heard a violent explosion from aft, and glancing round, saw the lurid flame of a detonation close by the after funnel. Someone screamed, and then the air seemed full of flying, whistling splinters. The ship had evidently been damaged, for her speed dropped fast. But she still moved through the water.

Another shell, falling in the water about twenty yards short, raised a gigantic spray column which fell on deck and drenched every soul on the bridge and forecastle. It then ricochetted over the bridge, passing so close that the air disturbance whisked the cap off Travers’ head and carried it neatly overboard.

But in another instant the sights of the foremost torpedo tube came on, and the sub pulled a lever.

The torpedo leapt out of its tube like a great silver fish and landed in the water with a splash. The stranger evidently saw it fired, for she circled round to avoid it with her guns still firing heavily.

Another hostile shell, bursting in the water, sent a number of fragments whizzing across the destroyer’s forecastle. Two men of the foremost gun’s crew were hit, and dropped to the deck, but the others, pushing them aside, went on loading and firing, loading and firing, as fast as they could.

The stranger, at very close range, offered an enormous target, and the destroyer’s weapons, small though they were, could hardly miss her. Shell after shell drove home, for they could see the brilliant flashes of the explosions as they struck and burst. The Tavy’s guns were smaller than those of her opponent, but the latter was enduring terrible punishment, and her fire was weakening rapidly.

Then, quite suddenly, a great column of water mingled with smoke and flame, leapt into the air at the steamer’s side. There came the awful, shattering roar of a heavy explosion. The torpedo had gone home.

When the turmoil died away, she had ceased firing. The torpedo must have struck her forward, for her bows were deep in the water and her stem was high in the air, with the propellers still revolving slowly. She seemed to be sinking fast.

Travers was still staring at her speechless, when the sub came on to the bridge chuckling with glee.

“I got her!” he shouted excitedly, pointing at the sinking ship. “By gum—I got her!”

The skipper said nothing. He had an awful feeling at the back of his mind that perhaps he might have sunk a British ship.

She had fired on him first, it is true, but would that absolve him from sinking her if she did turn out to be British?

. . . . . .

The Tavy had five men killed outright by the shell explosion aft, and another two wounded at the foremost gun. She was leaking and badly damaged, too, for when the engineer officer came on to the bridge, a little later, he reported that one boiler was hopelessly out of action, that the starboard engine was damaged and could not be used, and that one shell, penetrating the side below the waterline in the stern without bursting, had drilled a hole through which several compartments had been flooded. However, he added cheerfully, the hole had been plugged temporarily, and the ship was in no danger, while she could steam at ten knots with her other engine.

The stranger’s bows, meanwhile, were under water, and she was sinking fast by the head. Men aboard her could be seen lowering boats, and circling round, the Tavy approached to render what assistance she could.

But before she reached the spot, the steamer flung her stern high into the air. She hung poised for a few seconds, and then, amidst a cloud of steam and smoke, and with the muffled roar of collapsing bulkheads, slowly disappeared from view as if sucked down by a gigantic magnet.

The destroyer approached the scene and stopped her engines. The sea was covered with wreckage and a film of oil which prevented the waves from breaking, and switching on her searchlight, the Tavy swept the water for any signs of survivors. One or two were seen, the whaler was lowered, and after a prolonged search and with no little risk, one officer and twenty men, some of them badly wounded, were rescued. All the remainder had gone to their fate.

Travers waited anxiously. Suppose she were a British ship after all? Suppose he had been responsible for the drowning of some of his own countrymen?

But, no! The sub, who had been superintending the embarkation of the survivors, came on to the bridge soon afterwards. He was half beside himself with excitement.

“She was the German auxiliary cruiser Pelikan, sir!” he almost shouted.

“The Pelikan!” exclaimed Travers, a wave of thankfulness surging through his heart. “Are you quite certain, man?”

“Absolutely, sir. I got it from one of our—er—prisoners! You remember those flashes we saw?”

“Yes.”

“Well, she was sinking a British steamer!”

“A British steamer!” echoed the skipper. “Did they pick up any of her men?”

“No, sir,” the sub-lieutenant replied venomously. “They didn’t. They left ’em to sink or swim! Said the weather was too bad to lower boats!”

“Too bad for their boats when we could lower our whaler!” cried Travers, clenching his fists in rage. “The wretched cowards! I’m glad we had our revenge and sent a few of ’em under! I’d like to shove the survivors overboard after ’em, but suppose I can’t, worse luck! Is someone looking after ’em?”

“Yes,” said Munro with a grin. “At present they’re sitting round the galley fire drinking hot Bovril!”

“We’re a jolly sight too soft-hearted!” Travers retorted bitterly.

. . . . . .

Some fifteen hours later the Tavy, minus her after funnel and looking very battered and war-worn, limped into a certain port. The news of her exploit had already been transmitted by wireless, and when she steamed slowly up the harbour on her way to the dockyard, the crews of all the other ships present thronged on deck and cheered themselves hoarse.

The next day a brief announcement from the Admiralty appeared in the morning papers:—

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