Part 24 (2/2)

Old Garge gave a gasp of astonishment and looked enquiringly at Jack Sefton.

”Them nets cost a sight o' money,” he exclaimed ruefully. ”Now if I had a gun----”

”Hurry, there!” came the stern mandate from the U boat.

”You'll have to obey, I fancy,” said the sub. ”There's no escape.

Perhaps they'll let you off, as the smack is only a very small one. If you give them any lip they'll cut up rough.”

Deliberately Old Garge cut the trailing line of nets, bent the outward part to a life-buoy and cast it overboard. As he had remarked, nets were expensive affairs, and he was not going to cut them adrift without a means of recovering the gear should the Huns let him off lightly.

”Back your head-sails, Tim!” ordered the skipper, at the same time putting the helm hard down and allowing the _Fidelity_ to come up motionless into the wind, within a couple of yards of the bulging side of the U boat.

”Throw us a line!” was the peremptory greeting.

Agilely a fair-haired unter-leutnant boarded the smack, followed by three of his men. Giving a cursory glance at the fish-well, he said something in German to one of the seamen. In less than a minute the night's haul had been transferred to the captor.

”Low-down robbers!” muttered Old Garge under his breath, but the unter-leutnant caught the imprecation.

”Have a care,” he said sternly, ”or we sink your boat. What these men?

You carry a large crew for a little s.h.i.+p, Captain.”

”They are my men,” declared Old Garge loyally.

”Perhaps,” drawled the German, then, suddenly turning, he strode up to Sefton and his brother.

”Hold your hand out!” he ordered.

Leslie sn.i.g.g.e.red. In his opinion the uniformed Hun ought to have added the words ”Naughty boy”. The lad was enjoying the novel experience. His one regret was that George Crosthwaite was not present to share in the adventure.

Critically the unter-leutnant examined Jack's extended hand. In spite of the fact that it was discoloured with tar, and reeked of fish, the sub's hand showed that it belonged to a person not of the ordinary working cla.s.s. The long, tapering fingers, manicured nails, and absence of h.o.r.n.y protuberances on the palm ”gave him away”.

”What is your name?” demanded the German.

”Smith,” replied Sefton promptly.

Again the irritating, dubious, and speculative ”Per-haps”. The sub realized that he was in a tight corner.

”What this wound--how caused?” enquired the unter-leutnant, indicating the white scar on the young officer's wrist--the legacy of the affair off Jutland. ”Ach! Sh.e.l.l wound, hein? You are of military age. Stand aside.”

In spite of the brown jersey and the soiled serge trousers, the keen-witted Hun had come to the correct conclusion, that the tall, bronzed man was not a genuine smack hand. Not satisfied with the self-styled Smith's replies, he decided to interrogate his companion.

”Your name?” he demanded of Leslie, with a fierceness that effectually quenched all further inclination on the part of the youth to sn.i.g.g.e.r.

”Smith, too,” replied Leslie. ”He's my brother.”

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