Cover art

"'CAN YOU SPARE US ANY TORPEDOES?' SHOUTED SEFTON"

With Beatty off Jutland

A Romance of the Great Sea Fight

by

PERCY F. WESTERMAN

Author of "The Submarine Hunters"
"A Sub and a Submarine"
"The Dispatch Riders"
&c. &c.

Illustrated by Frank Gillett, R.I.

BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1920

By Percy F. Westerman

Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Buccaneers of Boya.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
Clipped Wings.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East in the "Golden Gain".
The Quest of the "Golden Hope".
Sea Scouts Abroad.
Sea Scouts Up-Channel.
The Wireless Officer.
A Lad of Grit.
The Submarine Hunters.
Sea Scouts All.
The Thick of the Fray,
A Sub and a Submarine.
Under the White Ensign.
The Fight for Constantinople.
With Beatty off Jutland.

Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow

————

CONTENTS

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Illustrations

["'Can you spare us any torpedoes?' shouted Sefton"] . . . Frontispiece
["'We surrender make.... We haf a leak sprung'"]
["Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard rails"]
["Poising himself for an instant, Sefton leapt on the 'Calder's' deck"]
["She sent a huge shell at point-blank range crashing into the light-built hull"]
["The 'Calder' had played her part, and it seemed base ingratitude to leave her to founder"]

WITH BEATTY OFF JUTLAND

[CHAPTER I--The Ward-room of H.M.S. "Calder"]

A cold grey morning in April somewhere in the North Sea; to be more exact, 18 miles N. 75° W. of the Haisborough Lightship.

Viewed from the fore-bridge of H.M. torpedo-boat destroyer Calder, there was little in the outlook to suggest that a state of war had existed for twenty months. The same short steep seas, the same lowering sky, the almost unbroken horizon towards which many anxious glances were hourly directed in the hope that "they" had at last come out.

Two cables' distance from the Calder, a typical trawler, with dense columns of smoke issuing from her funnel, was forging slowly ahead. Another vessel of a similar type was steaming in almost the opposite direction, and on a course that would bring her close under the stern of the almost motionless destroyer. From the galley funnel of each trawler a trail of bluish smoke was issuing, the reek as it drifted across the Calder's deck indicating pretty plainly the nature of the "hands'" breakfast. Of the crew of either craft no one was visible, the helmsman in each case sheltering in the ugly squat wheel-house on the bridge.

Acting Sub-lieutenant Sefton brought his binoculars to bear upon the nearmost trawler. The action was merely a perfunctory one. He knew both trawlers almost about as much as their own crews did, and certainly more than their respective owners in pre-war times. For close on fifty hours, watch in and watch out, the Calder had been dancing attendance on these two almost insignificant specimens of the North Sea fishing-fleet--the Carse o' Gowrie and the Dimpled Lassie, both registered at the port of Aberdeen.

Carrying bare steerage-way, the destroyer glided slowly past the Dimpled Lassie's port quarter. From the trawler's stern a flexible wire hawser led beneath the foaming wake of the propeller, dipping with a sag that did not gladden the heart of the young officer of the watch.

"Any luck yet?" shouted Sefton through an enormous megaphone.

At the hail two men's heads appeared above the bulwarks aft, while a greatcoated figure came in view from behind the storm-dodgers of the trawler's bridge.

"Not the least, sir," replied the master of the Dimpled Lassie, Peter M'Kie, skipper R.N.R. "Are we right, sir?"

The acting-sub had a few minutes previously taken an observation. The destroyer was playing the part of nursemaid to the two trawlers, for although both skippers could find their way, even in thick weather, almost anywhere in the North Sea, solely by the aid of lead-line and compass, neither had the faintest experience in the use of the sextant.

"Ought to be right over it," replied Sefton. "Carry on, and trust to luck."

The trawlers were "creeping" with grapnels. Not for mines, although there was always a possibility of hooking one of those fiendish contrivances. That was a risk that the tough fisherman faced with an equanimity bordering on fatalism. Mine-sweeping they had engaged upon almost continuously since the notable month of August, 1914. Now they were on particular service--a service of such importance and where so much secrecy was imperative that these two Scottish trawlers had been sent expressly from a northern base to scour the bed of the North Sea in the neighbourhood of Great Yarmouth, where there were Government craft for disposal in abundance.

Sefton replaced his binoculars, and, turning, found that his superior officer had just come on deck and was standing at his elbow.

Lieutenant Richard Crosthwaite, D.S.O., the "owner" of the destroyer, was one of those young officers who had made good use of the chances that the war had thrown in his way. Specially promoted for good work in the Dardanelles, he found himself at a comparatively early age in command of a destroyer that had already made a name for herself in the gallant but ill-starred operations against the Turks.

"Well, Mr. Sefton?" he asked.

"Nothing much to report, sir," replied the acting-sub. "But we'll get it yet," he added confidently.

Evidently "it"--hardly ever referred to by any other designation--was more elusive than Crosthwaite had imagined. A shade of disappointment flitted across his tanned features. The task upon which the trawlers were engaged was a matter of extreme urgency. At Whitehall anxious admirals awaited the news that "it" had been fished up; but "it", reposing serenely on the bed of the North Sea, had resolutely declined to receive the embraces of a couple of heavy grapnels.

Crosthwaite, after giving a searching glance to windward, stepped to the head of the ladder. An alert bos'n's mate, awaiting the signal, piped the starboard watch. Saluting, Sefton gained the deck and went aft, his mind dwelling on the prospects of breakfast and a much-needed sleep.

The ward-room, a scantily-furnished apartment extending the whole width of the ship, was showing signs of activity. From one of the adjoining dog-boxes, termed by courtesy a cabin, a short, full-faced, jovial-featured man had just emerged, clad in regulation trousers and a sweater. His curly light-brown hair was still wet, as the result of his ablutions, a slight gash upon the point of his chin betokened the fact that he had tempted fate by shaving in a stiff seaway, and by the aid of an ordinary razor dulled by the penetrating salt air.

"Oh, it's quiet down here----" he began singing in a ringing baritone.

"No need to rub that in, Pills," exclaimed a drawling voice. "The fact is patent to all. Can't you give us 'They don't run Corridor Cars on our Branch Line' by way of a change?"

Thereon hung a tale: something that took place when Jimmy Stirling first joined the mess at the Portsmouth Naval Barracks as a Probationary Surgeon, R.N.V.R.

"I called attention to the fact that it was quiet down here with deliberate intent, my festive Box-spanner," retorted the surgeon. "At last, after weeks of expostulation, your minions have succeeded in quelling that demon of unrest, the steam steering-gear. For the first time for a fortnight I have slept serenely, and, thanks to that blessed balm, I feel like a giant refreshed. Now, how about it?"

He made a dive into the adjoining cabin, where the engineer-lieutenant was in the act of struggling with a refractory collar. The next instant the two men lurched into the ward-room engaged in what looked to be a mortal struggle.

Cannoning off the stove, sweeping a sheaf of books from the wall, glissading from the cushioned lockers, the high-spirited officers tackled each other with mock-serious desperation until, with a violent heave, the athletic doctor deposited his engineering confrère fairly upon the table. With a series of crashes, cups, saucers, tureens, teapot, coffee-pot, eggs and bacon sidled in an indescribable state of chaos upon the floor.

"Time!" exclaimed Sefton authoritatively. "Look here, you fellows. I haven't had my breakfast, and I suppose you haven't had yours? Not that it matters to me. And, Pills, has your supply of bromide run out?"

The combatants separated and began taking stock of the damage.

"You logged a gale of wind last night, I hope, Sefton?" asked the engineer-lieutenant in tones of mock anxiety. "Must account for this smash-up, you know---- Any luck? Have they got it?"

The acting-sub, now that conversation had reverted to the inevitable "it", was bound to admit that the preceding night's labours had been fruitless. The possibilities of the recovery of the much-desired "it" monopolized the attention of the occupants of the ward-room until the steward, outwardly stolidly indifferent to the unsympathetic treatment of his labours, provided another repast.

They were boyish and high-spirited officers on H.M.T.B.D. Calder. Their pranks were but an antidote to the ceaseless strain of days and nights of watch and ward.

"To get back to things mundane," persisted the engineer-lieutenant as the trio sat down to their belated meal, "will they find it?"

"It is my firm belief that they will," replied Sefton decisively. "Even if we have to mark time about here for another month."

"Heaven forbid!" ejaculated the surgeon piously, "I pine for fresh water. Your vile condenser-brewed fluid is simply appalling, my festive Box-spanner. And I yearn for newspapers less than a week old."

The engineer-lieutenant glared defiance at his medical confrère. He knew perfectly well that the water on board was brackish and insipid, but it was condensed under his personal supervision. Any disparaging remarks upon his métier--even if uttered in jest--touched him to the quick.

A resumption of the "scrap" seemed imminent, when a bluejacket, tapping at the ward-room door, announced: "Captain's compliments, sir; they've just hooked it."

[CHAPTER II--The Recovered Cable]

Instantly there was a wild scramble on the part of the three officers to gain the deck, all other topics of interest vanishing before the all-important information.

A cable's length on the port beam the Carse o' Gowrie was backing gently astern in order to close with her consort. The Dimpled Lassie was pitching sluggishly. Way had been taken off her, while over her squat counter the wire hawser attached to the Lucas grapnel was "straight up and down" under the steady strain of some heavy and still submerged object.

From the destroyer's bridge a signalman was semaphoring rapidly by means of hand-flags. The Dimpled Lassie replied. The man had just finished delivering the message to Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite when Sefton and the other officers gained the bridge.

"There's no doubt about it now," declared Crosthwaite breezily. "They've just reported that the thing is two fathoms off the bottom. The Carse o' Gowrie is going to help take the strain."

"Hope it won't carry away, sir," remarked Sefton.

"Never fear! Where the patent grapnel grips, it holds. What water have we?"

A cast with the lead gave 19 fathoms, the tide having risen 7 feet. The tidal current was setting south-east a half east, with a velocity of 1-½ knots.

"Tide'll be slacking in half an hour," said the skipper. "The less strain we get the better. Signalman!"

"Sir?"

"Ask the Dimpled Lassie to report the state of the dynometer."

Promptly came the reply that already the strain on the grapnel hawser was 2-½ tons.

"And the breaking strain is four, sir," Sefton reminded his chief.

"We'll get it all right," reiterated Crosthwaite. "Never fear."

His optimism was justified when forty-five minutes later the grapnel sullenly bobbed above the surface, holding in its tightly-closed jaws the bight of a large submarine electric cable.

"Let's hope we've hooked the right one," muttered the engineer-lieutenant.

"You atom of despondency!" exclaimed Stirling.

"I state a possibility, not a probability, Pills," rejoined Boxspanner. "It's a three-to-one chance, you know."

Already a number of artificers, who had been temporarily detailed for duty on board each of the trawlers, were hard at work in connection with the retrieved cable. What they were doing in connection must remain a matter of conjecture, but the fact was patent that the success or otherwise of unremitting toil depended upon the next few minutes.

Impatiently the young lieutenant-commander of the Calder awaited a further signal announcing the result of the investigations. When it came it was highly satisfactory.

"Thanks be for small mercies!" ejaculated Crosthwaite fervently. "Signal M'Kie and tell him to take due precautions in case a ground swell sets in from the east'ard."

The cable was one of three that in pre-war time connected the little Norfolk fishing-village of Bacton with the German island of Borkum. Two more ran from Borkum to Lowestoft, the whole system being partly British and partly German controlled.

Immediately upon the declaration of war the telegraph cables had been severed, both in the neighbourhood of the British coast and in the vicinity of the German island fortress. To all intents and purposes it seemed as if the cables were nothing more than useless cores of copper encased in gutta-percha, rotting in the ooze on the bed of the North Sea.

Yet in spite of the most stringent precautions on the part of the British Government to prevent a leakage of news, the disconcerting fact remained that, thanks to an efficient and extensive espionage system, information, especially relating to the movements of the Grand Fleet, did reach Germany.

Various illicit means of communication were suspected by the authorities, and drastic, though none the less highly necessary, regulations were put into force that had the effect of reducing the leakage to a minimum.

Simultaneously a campaign was opened against the use of wireless installations. Undoubtedly wireless played its part in the spies' work, but its efficacy was doubtful. It could be "tapped"; its source of agency could be located. However beneficial in times of peace, it was a two-edged weapon in war.

For a long time the British Government failed to unravel the secret, until it was suggested that the submarine cables had been repaired. And this was precisely what had been done. The Huns had promptly repaired their end of one of the Bacton-Borkum lines, while a German trawler, disguised as a Dutch fishing-boat, had grappled the severed end just beyond the British three-mile limit.

To the recovered end was fixed a light india-rubber-covered cable. This would be sufficiently strong to outlast the duration of the war, the scarcity of gutta-percha and the enormous weight of the finished cable being prohibitive. It was paid out from the trawler with considerable rapidity, the end being buoyed and dropped overboard some miles from the spot where the original cable used to land. In the inky blackness of a dark winter's night a boat manned by German agents disguised as British fishermen succeeded in recovering the light cable and taking it ashore. Here it was a brief and simple matter to carry the line to a cottage on the edge of the low cliff, burying the land portion in the sand.

For nearly eighteen months the secret wireless station had been in active operation. News culled from all the naval bases by trustworthy German agents was surreptitiously communicated to the operators in the little unsuspected Norfolk cottage and thence telegraphed to Borkum.

For the task of recovering the cable the utmost skill, caution, and discretion were necessary. The vessels detailed for the work were sent from a far-off Scottish port with orders to make no communication with the shore; while to protect them from possible interference the Calder had been detached from the rest of the flotilla to stand by and direct operations.

The Dimpled Lassie was indeed fortunate in finding the cable in a comparatively short space of time, and, what was more to the point, in locating the right one of the three known to be in close proximity. Contrast this performance with that of the cruiser Huascar in the Chilean-Peruvian War. That vessel tried for two days in shallow water to sever the cable at Valparaiso. The officer in charge had himself assisted to lay that particular cable, but picked up the one communicating with Iquique and severed that by mistake.

The only "fly in the ointment", as far as Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite was concerned, was the anticipated fact that the Calder would have to dance attendance upon the trawlers for an indefinite period. Once the mild excitement of grappling for the cable was over, the Calder was in the position of those who "serve who only stand and wait". It was a necessary task to "stand by", but with vague rumours in the air of naval activity on the part of the Huns, the officers and crew of the destroyer would infinitely have preferred to be in the thick of it, rather than detained within a few miles of the Norfolk and Suffolk coast.

When at length interest in the proceeding had somewhat abated, Sub-lieutenant Sefton went below to make up long arrears of sleep.

He had not turned in many minutes when Doctor Stirling gave him a resounding whack on the back.

"Wake up, you lazy bounder!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Didn't you hear 'Action Stations'? We've got the whole German fleet coming for us."

[CHAPTER III--The Stranded Submarine]

"No such luck," protested Sefton, until, reading the serious look in the medical officer's eyes, and now conscious of a commotion on deck as the ship's company went to action stations, he started up, leapt from his bunk, and hurriedly scrambled into his clothes.

Upon gaining the deck Sefton found that Stirling had exaggerated the facts--he generally did, as a matter of fact. Just looming through the light haze were half a dozen large grey forms emitting tell-tale columns of smoke; for, combined with the lack of Welsh steam coal and inferior stoking, the Huns generally managed to betray their whereabouts by volumes of black vapour from their funnels.

The ships were now steaming in double column, line ahead, and, having left Smith's Knoll well on the starboard hand, were running on a southerly course to clear Winterton Ridge.

"Off to Yarmouth, I'll swear," declared Crosthwaite. "The bounders have got wind of the fact that our battle-cruisers are well up north."

The Calder was now approaching the two trawlers. Grasping a megaphone, the lieutenant-commander hailed the skipper of the Carse o' Gowrie.

"German battle-cruisers in sight," he shouted. "You had better slip and clear out."

The tough old Scot shaded his eyes with a hairy, tanned hand and looked in the direction of the hostile craft.

"I'll bide here, if ye have nae objection, sir," he replied. "After all this fuss, fetchin' the cable an' all, I'm nae keen on dropping it agen. Maybe they'll tak no notice of us, thinking we're fisherfolk."

"The probability is that they'll sink you," said Crosthwaite, secretly gratified at the old man's bravery, and yet unwilling to have to leave the trawlers to their fate.

"If they do, they do," replied the skipper unmoved. "It wouldna be the first by many a one. But sin' we hae the cable, here we bide."

Old Peter M'Kie was of a similar opinion. Sink or swim, he meant to stand by. The Carse o' Gowrie and the Dimpled Lassie were to remain with the fished cable, since it was just possible that the Germans might take them for ordinary trawlers, as the boats showed no guns.

The lieutenant-commander of the destroyer saw that it was of no use to attempt to shake the resolution of the two skippers. After all, they stood a chance. By remaining quietly, and riding to the raised cable, they certainly had the appearance of fishing boats using their trawl, while any attempts at flight might result in unpleasant attentions from the number of torpedo-boats accompanying the German battle-cruisers.

Accordingly the Calder slipped quietly away, keeping under the lee of the Haisborough Sands to avoid being spotted by the enemy vessels. It was a genuine case of discretion being the better part of valour. Although not a man of her crew would have blenched had orders been given to steam full speed ahead towards the huge German battle-cruisers, Crosthwaite realized that such a step would be utterly useless. Long before the destroyer could get within torpedo-range of the foe, she would be swept clean and sent to the bottom under the concentrated fire of fifty or more quick-firers. Had it been night or thick weather the Calder would no doubt have attempted to get home with her 21-inch torpedoes. The risk would be worth running. But, as matters now stood, it would be sheer suicidal madness on her part, without the faintest chance of accomplishing anything to justify the attempt.

Meanwhile the destroyer was sending out wireless messages reporting the presence of the raiders. Busy in exchanging wireless signals with their far-flung line of covering torpedo-boats, and with a couple of Zeppelins that flew high overhead, the German vessels made no attempt to "jam" the Calder's aerial warning.

Constantly ready for action at very brief notice, the British battle-squadrons were under weigh within a few minutes of the receipt of the Calder's message, and Beatty's Cat Squadron was heading south-east with all possible speed before the first hostile gun thundered against Great Yarmouth.

"They've opened the one-sided ball," remarked Sefton as a dull boom from the now invisible German ships--a single report that was quickly taken up by other heavy weapons--was borne to the ears of the Calder's crew. "And, by Jove, Whit-Monday too."

"Yes," assented the doctor. "And ten to one the beach is crowded with holiday-makers. Before we left port, didn't we see some idiotic report in the papers stating that the East Coast would be ready for holiday visitors 'as usual'?"

"Let's hope the Huns will get cut off again," said the sub. "Another Blücher or two will make them sit up."

"They're too wary," replied the somewhat pessimistic medico. "They've been warned that the coast is clear. Before the submarines from Harwich can come up they'll be off. And with twelve hours of daylight in front of them they'll be back long before our sixth destroyer flotilla can make a night attack."

For nearly twenty minutes the officers and men listened in silence to the furious bombardment. Several of the latter had homes in the town that now lay exposed to the enemy guns. Realizing their helplessness, they could only hope that the damage done was no greater than that of the previous naval attack on the same place, and that this time the Cat Squadron would intercept the raiders and exact a just and terrible retribution.

At length the firing ceased almost as suddenly as it had begun. In vain the destroyer's crew waited long and anxiously for the renewal of the cannonade in the offing that would announce the gratifying news that Beatty had once more intercepted the returning Huns.

At 20 knots the Calder returned towards the position in which she had left the two trawlers. With feelings of relief it was seen that both craft were still afloat and apparently all well.

Suddenly one of the look-outs raised the shout of: "Submarine on the starboard bow, sir!"

Without a moment's hesitation Crosthwaite telegraphed for full speed, at the same time ordering the quartermaster to port helm.

A mile and a half away could be discerned the elongated conning-tower and partly housed twin periscopes of a large submarine, although why in broad daylight the unterseeboot--for such she undoubtedly was--exposed her conning-tower above the surface was at first sight perplexing.

With the for'ard 4-inch quick-firer loaded and trained upon the meagre target the Calder leapt forward at a good 24 knots, ready at the first sign of the submerging of the submarine to send a projectile crashing into and pulverizing the thin steel plating of her conning-tower.

So intent was the lieutenant-commander upon his intended prey that he had failed to notice the proximity of a black-and-white can buoy now almost on the starboard bow. It was not until Sefton reminded him of the fact that he realized that the destroyer was doing her level best to pile herself upon the Haisborough Sands--a feat that the German submarine had already accomplished to the rage and mortification of her officers and crew.

Listing violently outwards, the destroyer swung round clear of the treacherous shoal, and for the first time Crosthwaite was aware of the ignominious predicament of the unterseeboot.

"The beggar may have a broadside torpedo-tube," he remarked to his subordinate as he ordered the Calder to be swung round, bows on to the stranded craft, speed having been reduced to give the destroyer more steerage-way. "Give her a round with the for'ard gun. Plank a shell a hundred yards astern."

The shot had the desired effect. The conning-tower hatch was thrown open, and the head and shoulders of a petty officer appeared. For a few moments he hesitated, looking thoroughly scared, then his hands were extended above his head.

In this position of surrender he remained, until, finding that the destroyer made no further attempt to shell the submarine, he emerged from the conning-tower. Two officers followed, and then the rest of the crew--twenty-two all told. The officers stood upon the steel grating surrounding the conning-tower, for the tide had now fallen sufficiently to allow the platform to show above water. The rest of the crew, wading knee-deep, formed up in a sorry line upon the after part of the still submerged hull, and, with uplifted hands, awaited the pleasure of their captors.

"Fetch 'em off, Mr. Sefton," ordered the lieutenant-commander. "Half of 'em at a time."

The sub hastened to order away the boat. As he did so Dr. Stirling nudged him and whispered in his ear:

"Shall I lend you a saw, old man?"

"A saw!" repeated Sefton in astonishment. "What on earth for?"

"Skipper said you were to bring half of them at a time," explained the irresponsible medico with a grin. "Better try the top half of each man first trip."

"That'll do, Pills," retorted the sub. "If it's surgery you're after, you had better do your own dirty work."

"Give way, lads," ordered the sub as the boat drew clear of the steel wall-side of the destroyer.

"We surrender make," declared the kapitan of the submarine as the boat ranged up alongside. "We haf a leak sprung."

"WE SURRENDER MAKE.... WE HAF A LEAK SPRUNG">[

"Sorry to hear it," rejoined Sefton.

"Is dat so?" enquired the perplexed German, mystified at his foe's solicitude.

"Yes," soliloquized the sub. "We would much rather have collared the strafed submarine intact. We didn't bargain for her keel plates being stove in.

"Now then!" he exclaimed. "I'll take eleven of you men first trip."

The coxwain and bowman of the boat deftly engaged their boat-hooks in convenient projections of the submarine's conning-tower, while the specified number of dejected and apprehensive Huns was received on board.

Having delivered the first batch of prisoners on the destroyer, Sefton returned, but, instead of immediately running alongside the prize, he ordered his men to lie on their oars. With the boat drifting at a distance of twenty yards from the unterseeboot, the sub coolly awaited developments.

The Huns--officers and men alike--were far from cool. Gesticulating wildly, they implored the sub to take them off. Never before had Sefton seen a greater anxiety on the part of the Germans to abandon their ship, and in the course of eleven months' service in the North Sea his knowledge of the ways of the wily Hun was fairly extensive.

At length two of the submarine's crew, unable to restrain their panic, leapt overboard and struck out for the boat.

"Stand by with a stretcher, there, Jenkins," ordered Sefton. "Show them what we mean to do. Knock them over the knuckles if they attempt to grasp the gunwale."

"We surrender do, kamerad!" shouted the Huns in dolorous chorus, seeing their companions repelled from the waiting boat.

"Yes, I know," replied Sefton. "You've told me that already. A few minutes' wait won't hurt you. There's plenty of time."

"Back oars!" ordered the sub, as the Germans, terrified beyond measure, slid from the submarine's deck into the water, officers and men striking out frantically.

Thirty seconds later came the dull muffled sound of an explosion. A thin wreath of vapour issued from the open conning-tower.

"Not much of a bust-up that," exclaimed Sefton contemptuously. "It would not have flicked a fly from her deck. Well, I suppose I must take the beggars into the boat."

The lightness of the explosion had also astonished the German officers. Adopting their usual procedure they had fixed three detonators in the hull of the stranded vessel, and upon the approach of the Calder's boat the second time they had lighted the four-minute time-fuses.

Sefton, guessing rightly what had been done, had resolved to give the Huns, not a bad quarter of an hour, but a worse three minutes. He, too, expected to see the submarine's hull disintegrated by a terrific explosion.

On the boat's return to the destroyer with the rest of the prisoners, Sefton made his report to the lieutenant-commander.

"Can't blame them," declared Crosthwaite. "In similar circumstances we would have done the same, but with better results, I hope. Send that petty officer aft; I want to speak to him."

The man indicated was, as luck would have it, the fellow responsible for lighting the fuses. Putting on his fiercest expression, Lieutenant-Commander Crosthwaite sternly taxed him with attempting to destroy the submarine after she had surrendered.

Taken aback, the man admitted that it was so.

"How many detonators?" asked Crosthwaite.

"Three, Herr Kapitan."

"And what time-fuses?"

"Four-minutes," was the reply.

"Then jolly rotten stuff," commented the lieutenant-commander as he motioned for the prisoner to be removed below. "We'll give them another quarter of an hour before we board her."

The stated time passed without any signs of further internal explosions. The Calder made good use of the interval, Harwich being communicated with by wireless, announcing the capture of the prize, and requesting tugs and lighters to be dispatched to assist the disabled U boat into port.

"Now I think it's all O.K.," remarked Crosthwaite. "Sure you're keen on the job?"

Sefton flushed under his tanned skin. His skipper was quick to notice that he had blundered.

"Sorry!" he said apologetically. "Ought to have jolly well known you better. Off you go, and good luck. By the by, take a volunteer crew."

Of the seventy men of the Calder every one would have unhesitatingly followed the sub. Asking for volunteers for a hazardous service was merely a matter of form. There was quite a mild contest to take part in the operations of boarding the submarine.

By this time the falling tide had left nearly the whole extent of the deck dry. There were four hatchways in addition to the conning-tower, each of which was securely fastened. Through the open aperture in the conning-tower Sefton made his way. Below all was in darkness, for with the explosion the electric lamps had been extinguished. A heavy reek of petrol fumes and sulphurous smoke scented the confined space.

The sub switched on the electric torch which he had taken the precaution to bring with him. The rays barely penetrated the smoke beyond a few feet.

"Phew!" he muttered. "Too jolly thick. It is a case for a smoke-helmet."

Back went the boat, returning in a short space of time with the required article. Donning the safety-helmet, one of the bluejackets descended, groped his way to the nearest hatchway and opened it.

An uninterrupted current of fresh air ensued, and in ten minutes the midship portion of the prize was practically free from noxious fumes.

"Blow me, Nobby," exclaimed one of the carpenter's crew, "did you ever see such a lash up? Strikes me they slung this old hooker together in a bit of a hurry."

The shipwright's contemptuous reference to the Teuton constructor's art was justified. The submarine had every appearance of being roughly built in sections and bolted together. Everything pointed to hurried and makeshift work.

Under the engine beds Sefton discovered two unexploded detonators. The one that had gone off was "something of a dud", for the explosive force was very feeble--insufficient even to start any of the hull plating. But it had performed a useful service to the British prize crew: the blast had detached the time-fuses from the remaining gun-cotton charges, and had thus preserved the submarine from total destruction.

Nevertheless Sefton heaved a sigh of relief as the two detonators were dropped overboard. Guncotton, especially German-made stuff, was apt to play peculiar tricks.

The fore and after compartments or sub-divisions of the hull were closed by means of watertight doors in the bulkheads. The foremost was found to have four feet of water--the same depth as that of the sea over the bank on which the vessel had stranded. It was here that the plates had been started when the U boat made her unlucky acquaintance with the Haisborough Shoal.

Flashing his torch upon the oily surface of the water, Sefton made a brief examination. On either side of the bulging framework were tiers of bunks. This compartment, then, was the sleeping-quarters of the submarine's crew. Of torpedo-tubes there were no signs; nor were these to be found anywhere else on board. Aft was a "gantry" communicating with an ingeniously contrived air-lock. The submarine was not designed for torpedo work but for an even more sinister task: that of mine-laying. Not a single globe of latent destruction remained on board. Already the U boat had sown her crop of death; would there be time to destroy the harvest?

[CHAPTER IV--Not Under Control]

Quickly the news of the captured submarine's former activities was flash-signalled to the Calder, and with the least possible delay the information was transmitted by wireless to Great Yarmouth and Harwich.

Until the minefield was located and destroyed it was unsafe for any shipping to proceed to or from Yarmouth Roads.

Questions put to the U boat's crew elicited that the vessel was one of seven operating in conjunction with the raiding cruisers. While the German fleet was bombarding Yarmouth, the submarines--having on account of their slower speed set out on the previous day--proceeded to lay a chain of mines from the Would through Haisborough Gat, and thence to a point a few cables east of the Gorton lightship, thus completely enclosing Yarmouth Roads from the sea. The UC6--that being the designation of the prize--had just completed her task when she sighted the Calder approaching. Miscalculating her position, she had run her nose hard upon the shoal, with the result that her low compartment quickly flooded, thus rendering her incapable of keeping afloat.

It was not long before four mine-sweepers came lumbering northwards from Yarmouth, while others proceeded in different directions to "clear up the mess", as their crews tersely described the dangerous operations of destroying the mines.

The Calder, still standing by, had missed the northern limit of the German minefield by a few yards. Had she held on her former course the probability was that she would have bumped upon a couple of the infernal contrivances--for the mines were dropped in twos, each pair connected by a span of cable to make more certain of a vessel's bows being caught in its bight--and been blown up with the loss of all her crew.

The destroyer had been sent on particular service. Other side issues had demanded her attention, and, with the pluck and resourcefulness of British seamen, her crew had risen to the occasion. To them it was all in the day's work, with one ulterior motive--to push on with the war.

Deftly, the result of months of experience, the mine-sweepers set to work. With little delay the first of the mines was located, dragged to the surface, and sunk by means of rifle-fire. Others were destroyed in quick succession, two exploding as the bullets, made for the purpose of penetrating the buoyancy chambers, contrived to hit the projecting horns of the detonating mechanism.

In two hours, the trawlers having swept the whole extent of the Would, the minefield was reported to be destroyed.

"What damage ashore?" enquired Crosthwaite, as the nearest trawler sidled under the destroyer's stern.

"Precious little, sir, considering," replied the master of the mine-sweeper. "A few buildings knocked about and a score or so of people killed or injured. Might ha' been worse," and he shook his fist in the direction in which the raiders had fled.

Sedately, as if conscious of having modestly performed a gallant service, the mine-sweepers bore up for home, and once again the Calder was left to stand by her prize.

She was not long left alone. A number of motor patrol-boats came buzzing round like flies round a honey-pot. The work of transferring the German prisoners was quickly taken in hand. They were put on board the patrol-boats in batches of half a dozen. It saved the destroyer the trouble of putting into port when she was supposed to hold no communication with the shore.

The last of the motor-boats had brought up alongside the Calder when Sefton recognized the R.N.R. sub-lieutenant in charge as an old friend of pre-war days.

Algernon Stickleton was a man whose acquaintance with the sea was strictly limited to week-ends spent on board the Motor Yacht Club's headquarters--the ex-Admiralty yacht Enchantress--in Southampton Water. Given a craft with engines, he could steer her with a certain amount of confidence. Of navigation and the art of a mariner he knew little or nothing. Tides were a mystery to him, the mariner's compass an unknown quantity. In short, he was a marine motorist--the counterpart of the motor road-hog ashore.

Upon the outbreak of war, commissions in the R.N.R. motor-boat service were flung broadcast by the Admiralty at the members of the Motor Yacht Club, and amongst those who donned the pilot-coat with the gold wavy band and curl was Algernon Stickleton. At first he was given a "soft job", doing a sort of postman's work in Cowes Roads, until the experience, combined with his success in extricating himself, more by good luck than good management, from a few tight corners, justified the experiment of granting a commission to a comparatively callow marine motorist.

Then he was put through a rapid course of signalling and elementary navigation, and, having "stuck at it", the budding sub-lieutenant R.N.R. was sent to the East Coast on a motor-yacht with the prospect of being given a fast patrol-boat when deemed proficient.

Gone were those halcyon August and September days in Cowes Roads. He had to take his craft out by day and night, blow high or low. Boarding suspicious vessels in the open roadstead hardened his nerves and gave an unwonted zest to his work. At last he was doing something definite--taking an active part in the navy's work.

"My first trip in this hooker, old man," he announced to Sefton, indicating with a sweep of his hand the compact, grey-painted motor craft that lay alongside the destroyer's black hull. "A clinker for speed. She'd knock your craft into a cocked hat. It beats Brooklands hollow. Wants a bit of handlin', don't you know, but I think I brought her alongside very nicely, what?"

The last of the German prisoners having been received on board and passed below to the forepeak, Sub-lieutenant Stickleton prepared to cast off. Touching the tarnished peak of his cap, for months of exposure to all weathers had dimmed the pristine lustre of the once resplendent headgear, he gave the word for the motors to be started.

Then, with one hand on the steering-wheel, he let in the clutch.

Like an arrow from a bow the powerful box of machinery leapt forward. The result was disastrous as far as Stickleton was concerned. Unprepared to counteract the sudden momentum, he was literally "left", for, subsiding upon the short after-deck, he rolled backwards over the transom and fell into the boiling wake of the rapidly-moving motor-boat.

Fortunately he could swim well, and was quickly hauled over the destroyer's side, a dripping but still cheerful object.

Several of the Calder's crew laughed outright. Even Crosthwaite and Sefton had to smile. The sopping R.N.R. officer was quick to enter into the joke against himself.

"Hope I won't get reprimanded for leaving my ship without permission," he remarked facetiously.

"You haven't asked permission to board mine," Crosthwaite reminded him. "It's the custom of the service, you know."

Meanwhile attention was being transferred from the dripping officer to the craft of which he ought to be in command. Evidently her crew were unaware of what had occurred. The bowman was coiling down a rope, two of the deck hands were engaged in securing the fore-peak hatchway, while the rest were down below. The patrol-boat was tearing along at 38 knots, and, owing to the "torque" of the propellers, was describing a vast circle to port.

It was the cabin-boy who first made the discovery that the little craft was without a guiding hand at the wheel. He was down below tidying up the sub's cabin, when he found an automatic cigarette-lighter that Stickleton had mislaid. Anxious to get into his superior officer's good books, for the youngster was the bane of Stickleton's existence on board, the boy ascended the short ladder leading to the cockpit. To his surprise he found no helmsman.

Guessing that something was amiss, he hailed the bowman. The latter, scrambling aft, steadied the vessel on her helm, at the same time ordering the motors to be eased down. He was convinced that Stickleton had been jerked overboard and was swimming for dear life a couple of miles astern.

By this time the Calder bore almost due west, at a distance of six sea miles, for the patrol-boat had described a complete semicircle. For some time the boat searched in vain for her missing skipper, until the coxswain suggested returning to Yarmouth to report the casualty.

"Better get back to the destroyer, George," counselled another of the crew. "Maybe they've got our skipper. Anyway, there'll be no harm done."

Somewhat diffidently, George up-helmed and ordered full speed ahead. He, like the rest of the crew, was, before the war, a paid hand in a racing yacht; keen, alert, and a thorough seaman, but unused to a powerfully-engined boat. Ask him to bring a sailing-boat alongside in half a gale of wind, he would have complied with the utmost skill, luffing at the exact moment and allowing the craft to lose way with her canvas slatting in the breeze without the loss of a square inch of paint. Bringing a "match-box crammed chock-a-block with machinery" alongside was a totally different matter; but, as it had to be done, George clenched his teeth and gripped the spokes of the wheel, determined to die like a true Briton.

The patrol-boat had covered but half of the distance back to the Calder when she almost leapt clear of the water. The two deck-hands for'ard were thrown flat, and, sliding over the slippery planks, brought up against the low stanchion rails. A slight shock, barely perceptible above the pulsations of the motors, and the little packet dipped her nose under to the water, shook herself clear, and resumed her mad pelt.

"What's up, George?" sang out the mate.

"Dunno," replied the coxswain. "Guess we've bumped agen' summat."

Then, the dread possibility that he had run dawn his own skipper entering his mind, he decided to return and investigate.

Having had but little experience in the use of the reversing-gear, George slammed the lever hard-to. With a sickening jerk, as if the little craft were parting amidships, the patrol-boat stopped and gathered sternway. A minute later she backed over a large and ever-increasing pool of iridescent oil, through which air-bubbles were forcing their way.

"By Jupiter!" exclaimed one of the crew; "blest if we haven't rammed a strafed U boat."

The man had spoken truly. A German submarine, acting independently of the raiding-squadron, had sighted the Calder, hove-to, at a distance of three miles. Unaware of the presence of the patrol-boat--and the sight of a patrol-boat or a trawler usually gives the German unterseebooten a bad attack of the blues--her kapitan had taken a preliminary bearing prior to submerging in order to get within effective torpedo range. Having judged himself to have gained the required position, the Hun ordered the boat to be again brought to the surface.

At the critical moment he heard the thud of the propellers of the swiftly-moving patrol-boat. He attempted to dive, but too late. The sharp steel stem of the little craft, moving through the water at the rate of a railway train, nicked the top of the U boat's conning-tower sufficiently to penetrate the plating. Before steps could be taken to stop the inrush of water the U boat was doomed. Sinking slowly to the bottom, she filled, the heavy oil from her motors finding its way to the surface in an aureole of iridescent colours to mark her last resting-place.

George, seaman first, and fighting-man next, gave little thought to his involuntary act. The safety of his temporary command came foremost.

"Nip down below and see if she's started a seam," he ordered.

The men, who had been ejected from their quarters by the concussion, hurried to the fore-peak. As they opened the cuddy-hatch the half-dozen terrified German prisoners made a wild scramble to gain the deck.

"Who told you blighters to come out?" shouted George, and, abandoning the wheel, he rushed forward, seized the foremost Hun by the scruff of the neck and hurled him violently against the next man. The floor of the fore-peak was covered with a squirming heap of now thoroughly cowed Huns, to whom the apparition of the stalwart, angry Englishman was more to be dreaded than being shaken like peas in a pod in the dark recesses of their temporary prison quarter.

"Is she making anything?" enquired George anxiously, as he returned to take charge of the helm.

"Hardly a trickle," was the reassuring reply. "Whack her up, mate."

The coxwain proceeded to order full speed ahead, and the little craft tore back to the Calder in order that the news of her skipper's disappearance might be reported.

To the surprise of the patrol-boat's crew they discovered their sub, arrayed in borrowed garments, standing aft and motioning to the boat to come alongside.

It was easier said than done. The coxwain's faith in his capabilities was weak, notwithstanding his resolution. At the first shot he carried too much way, reversing engines when the little craft was fifty yards ahead of the destroyer. The second attempt found him a like distance short, with no way on the boat. At the third he dexterously caught a coil of rope hurled from the Calder, and succeeded in hauling alongside.

"We've just rammed a submarine, sir," reported the coxwain, saluting, delivering the information in a matter-of-fact manner, as if destroying enemy craft in this fashion were an everyday occurrence.

Sub-lieutenant Stickleton having regained his command, the motor-boat piloted the Calder to the scene of her exploit. A diver descended in nine fathoms, and quickly telephoned the confirmatory information that a U boat was lying with a list to starboard on the sand, with a rent in her conning-tower--the indirect result of the involuntary bathe of Sub-lieutenant Stickleton, R.N.R.

[CHAPTER V--Sefton to the Rescue]

"A tug and a couple of lighters bearing down, sir," reported the Calder's look-out before the diver had reappeared from his errand of investigation.

Approaching at the modest rate of 7 knots was a paddle-wheel steamer towing two unwieldy craft resembling overgrown canal barges.

The tide was now well on the flood. It wanted about a couple of hours to high water, and, since the falling glass and clear visibility of distant objects betokened the approach of bad weather, urgent steps would have to be taken speedily to extricate the captured submarine from the embraces of the sand-bank.

The examination of the prize by her captors was now practically complete. The U boat was one of a new type, and had left Wilhelmshaven on her maiden trip forty-eight hours previously. She had either lost her bearings or had purposely approached shoal water. Anyhow she had been neatly strafed before she had had time to do much mischief.

Already the Calder's crew had taken steps to assist the salvage people in the task of floating the prize. The hatchways, with the exception of that of the conning-tower, had been hermetically closed, and the watertight doors in the for'ard bulkhead shut and shored up to withstand the pressure of water in the holed fore-peak.

By the time the lighters were made fast, one on either side of the submarine, the level of the water was up to within fifteen inches of the conning-tower hatchway. Quickly hoses, connected to Downton pumps, were led from the lighters to the water-ballast tanks of the submarine, since it had been found impossible to "start" the ballast by means of hand pumps.

It was a race against time and tide. The mechanical appliances won, and soon the Calder's officers and crew had the satisfaction of seeing the submarine's deck appear close to the surface.

She still had a pronounced "dip", the flooded for'ard compartment tending to depress her bow; but, supported by the two lighters, she was prevented from sinking. Then, taken in tow by the tug, the prize, with her cumbersome attendants, waddled slowly for Harwich.

Her part in this supplementary business ended, the Calder slipped off at full speed to the position where the Dimpled Lassie and the Carse o' Gowrie still held a resolute grip on the recovered cable.

As Skipper M'Kie had surmised, neither of the trawlers had been molested by the German battle-cruisers or destroyers. Carried away by their frantic desire to make a display of frightfulness upon an unprotected English watering-place they had totally ignored the seemingly innocuous cable-grappling craft.

"It will blow like billy-oh before morning," remarked Lieutenant Crosthwaite to his subordinate. "I'm going to tell them to buoy and slip the cable. We've done very well, I think. You might make an observation; I'll take another, and we'll check our calculations. I'll guarantee we won't have much trouble in fishing up the cable next time."

Crosthwaite's orders to the skippers of the trawlers were smartly carried out, and the cable, left with its position marked by a green wreck-buoy, a sufficient guarantee against detrimental examination by curious fishermen. Before sunset the Calder and her two charges were snug in Lowestoft harbour, the crews being cautioned against the risk of letting fall any hint concerning their recent work--an injunction that they loyally carried out.

It was three days before the gale blew itself out. During that period events had been moving rapidly. And here one of the few advantages of being on particular service became apparent. Had not the Calder been detailed for escort duties to the cable-grappling trawlers the chances were that she would be plugging against heavy green seas, while those of her crew not on duty on deck would be existing under battened hatches. Instead, the destroyer was lying snugly berthed in a harbour, and her crew were able to enjoy brief spells of liberty ashore.

The next step was to locate the shore end of the cable. This work required particular skill and discretion, since the German operator would certainly be on the alert for the first suspicious movement.

Scotland Yard detectives, disguised as fishermen and longshoremen, eventually succeeded in tracing the source of the leakage of information. The temporary cable had been brought ashore nearly four miles from the original landing-place of the severed line, and led to a wooden hut on the edge of the sandy cliffs.

For the present, all that was required to be done in that direction was performed. The Admiralty had decided to let the cable turn the tables upon the Huns, and, until the time was ripe, the spy could telegraph without interruption, but unwittingly he was digging a pit for himself from which no escape was possible.

It was well into the third week in May when the Calder received orders to proceed to Rosyth, replenish stores and oil-fuel, and rejoin her flotilla. The news was hailed with delight, since it was possible that many of the officers and crew would be able to proceed on leave.

Another week passed. Information had reached the Commander-in-Chief of a certain amount of German activity in the North Sea. Something had to be done to attract the attention of the German populace from the series of rebuffs experienced by the Huns before Verdun. Exaggerated reports concerning the prowess of the German High Seas Fleet, coupled with news of spasmodic raids upon the British coast, helped to foster the ill-founded belief of the Huns in the invincibility of their navy, while, to keep up the deceit, Admiral von Scheer took his ships out for various discreet cruises off the Danish coast, where there was ever a possibility of making a quick run back under the guns and behind the minefields of Heligoland.

On the 29th May orders were issued for the First and Second Battle Squadrons and the Second Battle-Cruiser Squadron to proceed to a certain rendezvous in order to carry out target practice. The instructions were issued through the usual channels, with the almost certain knowledge that the information would leak out. The Commander-in-Chief's anticipation proved to be correct, for within three hours of the issuing of the order the news was transmitted to Germany by means of the tapped cable.

It was not the Admiral's intention to carry out target practice. Instead, the whole of the Grand Fleet put to sea from its various bases, ostensibly for the neighbourhood of the Orkneys, but in reality for a far more important objective.

At 1 a.m. on the 31st the authorities raided the isolated hut on the Norfolk coast, captured the German telegraph operator in the act of communicating with Borkum, and hurried him away under close arrest. He had played his part as far as the British interests were concerned, since he had informed the German Admiralty of the supposed rendezvous of Jellicoe's fleet.

"Do you think there's something in the wind, sir?" asked Sefton, as the Calder, in station with the rest of her flotilla, was slipping along at 18 knots.

Crosthwaite smiled enigmatically. He knew as much as captains of ships were supposed to know, which wasn't very much, but more than their subordinates were told.

"Patience!" he replied. "Can't say more at present. You might see how repairs to that 4-inch gun are progressing."

Sefton descended the bridge ladder and made his way aft. Slight defects in the mounting of the stern-chaser quick-firer had appeared almost as soon as the destroyer left the Firth of Forth, and the armourer's crew were hard at work rectifying the damage.

Gripping the stanchion rail surrounding the gun platform, for the Calder was rolling considerably in the "wash" of her preceding consorts, and exposed to a stiff beam wind, the sub watched the operation. He had no need to ask any questions; there was little about the mechanism of a 4-inch and its mountings that he did not know. He could see that the repairs were almost completed, only a few finishing touches requiring to be done.

"Man overboard!"

The sub rushed to the side just in time to see the outstretched arms of a bluejacket emerging from the following wave of the swiftly moving craft. It was indeed fortunate that the man was still alive, not only had he escaped having his back broken on striking the water, but he had missed the rapidly revolving starboard propeller. Clad in a "duffel" suit and wearing sea-boots, his position was precarious in the extreme.

Without hesitation Sefton made a flying leap over the guard-rails. Once clear of the side he drew up his legs and hunched his shoulders, striking the water with tremendous force. Well it was that he had taken this precaution instead of making a dive in the ordinary sense of the word, for, carried onward at the rate of a mile every three minutes, he ran a serious risk of dislocated limbs or a broken back had he not rolled himself into the nearest resemblance to a ball.

"WITHOUT HESITATION SEFTON MADE A FLYING LEAP OVER THE GUARD RAILS"

He sank deeply, and was swept irresistibly by the back-wash; it seemed as if he were fathoms down. Before he emerged he could distinctly hear the whirr of the triple propellers. Rising to the surface he refilled his lungs with the salt-laden air, for the concussion had wellnigh deprived him of breath. Then he gave a hurried glance around him.

The Calder was already a couple of cables' lengths away, while the destroyer next astern was almost on top of him. As she swept by, a lifebuoy was hurled towards the sub, luckily missing him by a bare yard.

The second and last destroyer astern saw the swimmer, and by porting helm avoided him easily, and saved him from the great discomfort of being flung about in her wake like a pea in a saucepan of boiling water. Without making any attempt to slow down and send a boat, the destroyer flotilla held on.

Sefton soon realized the necessity for this apparently inexplicable act. It was impossible without grave risk to the flotilla to break up the formation, while the danger was still further increased by the fact that the First Cruiser Squadron was pelting along somewhere three or four miles astern, and these vessels, being of a considerable tonnage, carried a tremendous amount of way. Above all, it was war-time, and individuals do not count when greater issues are at stake.

Presently the sub descried the head and shoulders of the missing man as he rose on the crest of the broken waves. He, too, had succeeded in reaching a lifebuoy thrown by the nearmost destroyer. Short as had been the time between the man's tumble overboard and Sefton's deliberate leap, owing to the speed of the flotilla nearly a quarter of a mile separated the would-be rescuer from the object of his gallant attempt.

"No use hanging on here," thought Sefton, as he clung to the buoy. "Must get to the man somehow."

Then it was that he realized that he had gone overboard in a thick pilot coat and india-rubber sea-boots. These he sacrificed regretfully, since there was no chance of replenishing his kit until the Calder returned to port--that is, if he had the good fortune to survive his adventure "in the ditch". The operation of discarding the boots gave him a tussle, during which he swallowed more salt water than desirable; then, relaxing his grip on the lifebuoy, Sefton struck out towards the man.

The sub was a good swimmer. At Dartmouth he had been "runner-up" for the 440 yards championship, but now he realized the vast difference between swimming that length in regulation costume and an equal distance almost fully clothed in the choppy North Sea.

By the time the sub came within hailing distance of the seaman his limbs felt as heavy as lead, while, do what he would, he was unable to raise his voice above a whisper, much less "assure the drowning man in a loud, firm voice that he is safe", according to the official regulations. Sefton was by no means certain that he himself was in anything but a most precarious position.

Sefton found that the man he had risked his life to save was not half so exhausted as he was. The seaman had come off lightly in his fall, and he had had no occasion to tire himself with a long swim to the lifebuoy, since the crew of the passing destroyer had all but brained him with the cork "Kisbie".

The A.B. regarded his rescuer with a look that betokened pained disapproval. He was one of those men who are ever "up against discipline". To him the gold band and curl on a uniform meant something more than authority: it roused a spirit of sullen aggression.

And yet Thomas Brown had joined the Royal Navy with the best intentions. Fate, in the shape of a short-tempered recruiting-officer, had marred his career from the very start; for, on joining the training-school at Shotley, one of the questions asked of him was the name of his birthplace.

"Ashby-de-la-Zouch, sir," replied young Brown, giving the name with the accepted Leicestershire accent.

"Where did you say?" enquired the lieutenant.

The recruit repeated the words.

"Zoo, did you say?" snapped the officer.

"Yes, sir," rejoined Thomas Brown without a moment's hesitation. "The next cage to yours."

The repartee came absolutely on the spur of the moment. A second's reflection might have made all the difference. It was a bad start, and the newly-entered boy suffered for it. That was some years ago, but in the Royal Navy the old adage of giving a dog a bad name holds good longer than anywhere else.

Sefton recognized the man as one who figured frequently in the "Captain's Report". Young as he was, the sub had a keen insight into human nature, and although he knew nothing of the first slip that had marred the A.B.'s career he was certain that there were good points in the man, and that underneath his rugged, surly exterior there was something of true worth.

"No need for you to tumble into the ditch after me, sir," said the man. "I can shift for myself."

He spoke gruffly, but underlying the remonstrance was an unmistakable tone of gratitude. In the circumstances he was glad of company. He would have welcomed his "raggie", or chum, in preference to an officer, but at such times the difference of rank gives place to the equality of human peril.

"They'll pick us both up," declared Sefton, although in his mind he had grave doubts as to the matter.

"Not they," rejoined A.B. Brown, indicating the direction of the now invisible flotilla with a jerk of his closely-cropped head. "The cruisers might. But take hold of this, sir," he added, pushing the buoy to within reach of the sub. "You looks as if you want it a long sight more'n me."

Both men relapsed into silence. Further conversation meant a waste of precious breath. At intervals, as the buoy rose on the billows, Sefton "hiked" his head and shoulders well clear of the water in the hope of sighting the armoured-cruiser squadron.

"They're a precious long time in coming up," he soliloquized. "Seven minutes ought to have done the trick."

As a matter of fact, the First Cruiser Squadron had received a wireless message from the Calder within ninety seconds of Sefton's leap overboard, requesting the vessels to keep a sharp look-out for the two men.

On receipt of the intelligence the armoured cruisers' speed was reduced to 10 knots, and this accounted for the seemingly endless time that elapsed before the vessels came within sight of the two well-nigh exhausted men as they clung to the lifebuoy.

At length, through the light haze that prevailed throughout the morning, could be discerned the grey outlines of the First Cruiser Squadron.

The ships were steaming in double column, line ahead, the Defence, flying the Rear-Admiral's flag, leading the starboard and the Warrior the port line. With faultless precision they came on, three cables' distance separating the units of each division, and twice that interval betwixt the columns.

"They've spotted us, sir," exclaimed Able Seaman Brown, as the alteration of position of the red flag and green cone displayed from the cruiser's mainmast yard-arm told the two men that the Warrior's helm was being ported. Simultaneously the "steaming cones" were reversed, showing that the ship's engines were going astern--a manoeuvre followed by the rest of the squadron.

Almost before way was taken off the ship the Warrior's sea-boat was rapidly lowered from the davits. Sefton could hear the dull thud of the lower blocks as the releasing-gear came into action and the falls surged against the ship's side, and the treble-voiced midshipman urging his boat's crew to "give way there, my lads, for all you're worth."

Although only a minute and a half elapsed between the time the sea-boat got away from the ship and her arrival at the scene of the rescue, the interval seemed interminable to Sub-lieutenant Sefton.

With feelings of indescribable relief he realized that he was being gripped by two pairs of horny powerful hands and lifted over the dipping gunwale into the stern-sheets, while others performed a like office for the saturated A.B.

Smartly the sea-boat was brought alongside the cruiser. Deftly the hoisting-gear was engaged, and with a hundred-and-twenty men tailing on the falls the boat and her occupants were whisked up to a level with the vessel's quarter-deck.

And thus Acting Sub-lieutenant John Sefton found himself on board H.M.S. Warrior, in blissful ignorance of the gallant part the armoured cruiser was about to bear in the glorious battle off the Jutland Bank.

[CHAPTER VI--Action at the Double]

The ship upon which Sefton found himself as an unauthorized supernumerary was an armoured cruiser of 13,550 tons, built and completed at Pembroke nine years previously. She was one of a class of four that marked a new departure in naval architecture--each of her guns being mounted singly and in a separate turret. At the time when she was laid down she was considered one of the heaviest armed cruisers of her day, mounting six 9.2-inch and four 7.5-inch guns. Of these, three 9.2's could be made to fire ahead, and a similar number astern, while on either broadside she could deliver a formidable salvo from four of the guns of heavier calibre and two of the 7.5's. With the exception of the following year's programme of the Minotaur class, the Warrior and her sister ships were the last armoured cruisers laid down by the British Admiralty, the all-big-gun battle-cruisers simply outclassing at one swoop the armoured cruisers of the world's navies.

Nevertheless the Warrior was still a powerful unit, and calculated to be more than a match for any German vessel of her size. Her designed speed of a fraction over 22 knots--a rate that when necessity arose could be exceeded--enabled her with the rest of her class to form a valuable, hard-hitting auxiliary to the vessels of the battle-cruiser squadrons.

While Sefton was being kitted out by an obliging brother sub-lieutenant, a wireless message had been sent to the Calder announcing the safety of her sub-lieutenant and A.B. Brown.

Crosthwaite received the gratifying intelligence with undisguised delight. His feelings were shared by the whole of the ship's company, for, almost without exception, the destroyer's officers were voted a "sound lot", and the possibility of Sefton's death in a gallant attempt at the rescue of a lower-deck man had thrown a gloom over the ship.

As for the lieutenant-commander, his relief and gratitude to Providence knew no bounds. Between Sefton's leap overboard and the receipt of the Warrior's message he had passed through a distressing time. Apart from his personal regard for the sub, with whom he had shared adventures and perils in the Near East, the fact that he had been compelled to abandon Sefton to the vagaries of fate hit him hard. He was even doubtful whether, with the possibilities of hostile submarines cruising around, the armoured cruisers would risk slowing down to rescue two men and at the same time present a splendid target for German torpedoes. However, the deed of rescue was accomplished, and the next step to consider was how to get Sefton and the A.B. back on the destroyer. The former's presence was desirable, in fact essential.

In answer to the Calder's lieutenant-commander's request, whether it would be possible for Sefton to be sent back to the destroyer, the rescuing ship replied that, should opportunity occur, the Calder could close, but that, in view of present conditions, such a step was most unlikely.

"So you'll jolly well have to make yourself at home here, old bird," remarked one of the Warrior's sub-lieutenants, who as a youngster had passed out of Dartmouth at the same time as Sefton. "Suppose the trip will do you good. Sort of marine excursion out and home, don't you know. Nothin' doin', and never a sign of a Hun, unless it be a 'tin-fish' or two."

The Warrior's sub voiced the opinion of the rest of the gun-room. He was president of the mess and a mild autocrat over the "small fry", and generally voted a rattling good sort by the handful of midshipmen, many of whom, alas! were to yield up their lives in undying fame before many hours were past.

Yet, although the whole of the personnel of the Grand Fleet were as keen as mustard to meet the Huns, frequent and almost unvarying disappointment had been their lot. Over and over again Beatty's squadron had swept the North Sea without coming in contact with the enemy, until it was the general conclusion that, until the High Seas Fleet was actually sighted, it was of no use speculating upon the chances of the "big scrap".

And now, on the memorable morning of Wednesday, the 31st May, the First and Second Battle-cruiser Squadron, three light-cruiser squadrons, with attendant destroyers, were ploughing eastward across the North Sea, with the knowledge that the hard-hitting Battle Fleet, together with a formidable array of cruisers and destroyers, was some distance to the nor'ard, ready, at the first wireless call, to complete the toils thrown around the German fleet should the latter, lured into a sense of false security, dare to leave the mine-fields of Heligoland.

Shortly after noon the wind dropped and the water became almost calm, save for the undulations caused by the swiftly-moving squadron. Overhead the sun shone faintly through a thick haze, which for hours hung about with irritating persistence.

Sefton had just commenced a game of draughts with some of the officers who were off duty, when a messenger entered the gun-room and handed a "chit" to the senior sub. Not until the man had gone did the young officer break the momentous news to the others, apologizing as if the information might unduly raise their hopes.