"All the same, it's part of the game, and only by constant practice can they keep in a state of efficiency. Our fellows are pretty smart at manoeuvring, but these Germans appear to run all sorts of needless risk, and still manage without serious accidents. Finished changing? Good! You might get on deck and see how things are progressing."

Barely had Detroit resumed his post at the helm when out of the fog came a succession of dull flashes, punctuated by the deafening detonation of a number of quick-firing guns. Then, like a veil rent in twain, the fog partly lifted, revealing a large battleship, cleared for action, and blazing away with her light armament in the direction of the small British yacht.

CHAPTER II

Through the Fog

"A German man-of-war!" exclaimed Detroit.

"Yes, one of the 'Deutschland' class," added Hamerton, who at the first report had followed his companion on deck. He recognized the battleship by her three telescopic funnels as belonging to a type immediately preceding the first of the Kaiser's Dreadnoughts. Although her principal armament consisted of only four eleven-inch and fourteen six-inch guns, she was not an antagonist to be despised.

A bugle blared and the firing suddenly ceased.

"She's engaged in manoeuvres," continued the Sub. "Those destroyers we saw are evidently about to attack her, and in the fog she mistook us for one of them."

"Is that likely?" asked Oswald.

"Rather. I know what it is to be on the qui vive. Officers and men are bound to get jumpy, and a dinghy might easily be mistaken for a torpedo boat. Remember the case of the Russian Baltic Fleet and our trawlers in the North Sea some years ago. But now's our chance to get rid of the poor fellow we picked up. Hand me the Code Flag and letter H."

Deftly Hamerton toggled the flags, signifying "Important; I wish to communicate", to the halyards, and hoisted them to the peak.

The German battleship was now less than four hundred yards to leeward and moving slowly through the water. At any moment she might be swallowed up in the fog, which showed signs of increasing in density.

"There's the reply," exclaimed Detroit, as two flags fluttered from the after-mast of the battleship.

"'I F,'" announced the Sub, placing his binoculars on the seat and seizing the codebook. "The rotters! They decline to hold any communication. There, she's off! Steady on the helm, old man! It's time I saw to those rashers."

Once more Hamerton entered the cabin. The rescued man was still lying on the floor, staring vacantly at the skylight.

"Are you better?" asked the Sub in as good German as he could muster. His command of foreign languages, like that of the majority of British officers, was poor. His German in particular was execrable.

"Ja," answered the man, without removing his gaze from the skylight. The reply was purely mechanical, for Hamerton could see that the fellow was not in full possession of his faculties.

"He'll recover all in good time," soliloquized Hamerton as he made his way to the fo'c'sle. "A glass of brandy and water will do wonders. Hallo! What's this?"

For the young officer had made the disconcerting discovery that in the "wash" of the destroyers the frying-pan had jumped off the stove, and four rashers lay stuck to the fo'c'sle floor in their own fat, whilst rivulets of dried grease had traced fancy patterns on the sides of the lockers and over a bundle of spare sails. To complete the disorder, a can of paraffin and a tin full of soda had come into violent contact, with the result that the contents of both gave additional flavour to the stranded rashers. But for this, Hamerton might have replaced the bacon in the frying-pan, reflecting that much of the pleasure of yachting consists in tolerating discomforts. He drew the line at rashers à la soda and paraffin.

"You'll have to whistle for hot grub, Detroit," he called out. "There's a most unholy mess for'ard. Hot coca and biscuits are the best I can do."

Detroit's reply was to give a tremendous salute upon the foghorn, an action that brought the Sub on deck.

"Destroyers are coming back," announced the American, "and the fog is as thick as ever it has been. We've tumbled into a regular hornet's nest of torpedo craft."

Five minutes later the sharp rattle of quick-firers announced that the battleship had been attacked by the destroyers, a form of practice that is regularly gone through by the Kaiser's ships. Then all was quiet.

Two more hours sped. The Diomeda still maintained her course, slipping through the fog-enshrouded water at a bare four knots.

The German sailor, having been given a "stiff peg", was able to sit up. Beyond feeling stiff and bruised by reason of his fall, he was little the worse for his immersion, and, upon being questioned, gave his replies in an intelligent and straightforward manner.

His name, he said, was Hans Pfeil. His rank corresponded to that of Chief Yeoman of Signals in the British navy. His ship was S167, one of, the most powerful of the Elbing-built destroyers, and belonging to the Second Division of the Borkum flotilla. The boats had left Borkum at midnight to deliver an attack upon the battleship Hannover.

"What was the approximate position of the division when you fell overboard?" asked Hamerton.

"Twenty miles due west of the Borkum Flat lightship."

The Sub whistled.

"We're out in our dead reckoning, Detroit," said he. "I thought we'd left the lightship well on our starboard quarter. If this man's story is correct—and I have no reason to believe otherwise—we ought to be within hearing distance of the lightship. This fog is the most persistent I have ever experienced."

"We will soon be in the way of steamship traffic in and out of the Elbe and Weser."

"Or else piled up on one of those treacherous sandbanks. I'll see what the North Sea Pilot says. Ah! Here we are: 'Borkum Riff, or Flat; syren in fog, one blast of five seconds every minute'. That's what we have to listen for, old man."

Returning to the cabin, Hamerton resumed his conversation with Hans. The seaman was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, for he realized that but for Detroit's plucky act he would be lying in the bed of the North Sea, twenty fathoms deep, instead of finding himself in the cabin of the Diomeda. He knew Kiel well, for not only had he been stationed there, but before he was called up for sea-service in the imperial navy he had been a fisherman at Flensburg, a town in the province of Schleswig. Thus he was able to give his benefactor much valuable information concerning the yacht anchorage in the neighbourhood of Kiel Bay.

The man was evidently troubled. His sense of duty, fostered by the cast-iron discipline of the German navy, prompted him to report himself as soon as practicable, and Hamerton, nowise loath to recognize a praiseworthy trait in Hans Pfeil's character, promised to tranship him to the first steamship bound either for Hamburg or Bremen.

"There's the Borkum Riff," announced Detroit.

"You're right," assented the Sub, after listening till the lightship again gave its warning note; "but goodness only knows the direction whence the sound comes. Seems as if it's on our port bow."

"Starboard, I think," remarked his companion.

"The fog's not only trying to the sight, but to the sense of hearing as well. We'll carry on, and trust to luck. It's my trick at the helm now, my boy."

For another hour the Diomeda hung on her course. The syren of the lightship sounded louder and louder, while the hooters of several vessels, adding to the din, betokened the fact that the yacht was crossing one of the great steamship routes.

Then, with the same sort of suddenness that characterized the previous temporary dispersal, the fog cleared, revealing a large