Thirty-somethingths.

More songs followed, then a series of recitations bearing upon incidents and characters on board Transport No. 99. Many of the references were pointedly personal; the victims enjoyed them as much as anyone, for it is difficult to raise a New Zealander's "dander" by means of a practical joke. And when the reciter commenced a string of verses portraying the catastrophe in the cabin shared by Lieutenant Nicholson and the Padre, the former's "Hear, hear!" and the latter's deep bass laugh were heard above the roars of hilarity.

The composer of the verses had turned the accident into a work of intent on the Padre's part, representing the latter combating the evil influence of sin. The reciter began with slight hesitation; then, finding that he was receiving unstinted approval, he warmed up to his task.

"Sin turned in, and soon was heard the music of his snore,
And then the Padre set to work as none had worked before.
He got a large belaying-pin, he got the vessel's lead,
And everything that weighed at all he piled upon the bed.
He took the screws out, one by one, that held the fixing frail,
Till all that stood 'twixt him and Sin was but a single nail.
Then with a fierce look in his eye, as one who thirsts for blood,
He hurled his weight upon the bunk--there came a sickening thud----"

Crash!

The old Awarua shook under the terrific impact of an unseen force, listed to starboard, and then slowly recovered, to heel to port. Simultaneously every electric light on the ship was extinguished, while above the noise of escaping steam arose the babel of hundreds of voices as the swarm of humanity slithered in a struggling mass along the sloping floor of the mess deck.

"Torpedoed, by Jupiter!" shouted a voice. The ominous words were taken up by others, and in the darkness an ugly rush was made for the upper deck.

CHAPTER V

Broken down in Mid-ocean

"It's all right, boys!" came a deep voice. "It's only the Padre fallen out of his bunk again."

The men recognized the voice.

"Good old Padre!" they shouted, and then silence fell upon the crowd. Someone struck a match, and held it so that the feeble glimmer shone upon his face. It was the C.O.

"File out in an orderly manner, lads," he ordered. "Fall in on the upper deck. I'll follow you out. We are not going over the top this time; when we do I'll take good care to lead you."

On the upper deck a bugle rang out shrilly. The seamen, assisted by some troops, who, detailed for duty, had not attended the sing-song, were "standing by" ready to lower away the boats.

Rapidly yet without confusion the mess deck was cleared. The first signs of panic nipped in the bud, the men were now as cool as cucumbers.

"How far is it to the nearest land?" enquired one as he ascended the ladder.

"Less'n half a mile underneath your feet," was the grim answer.

True to his word, the Colonel was the last to leave the mess deck. As he emerged into the open air he remarked to the Chaplain: "My word, Padre, heaven forgive you for that lie, but you saved the situation."

Like most of his comrades, Malcolm Carr was under the impression that he would soon have to swim for it, unless he was one of the lucky ones to get told off to the boats. If anyone had suggested that he was afraid, he would have stoutly repudiated the statement; but he was conscious of a peculiar sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. To a man not a sailor by profession the knowledge that only a comparatively thin steel plate, and fractured at that, is between him and death by drowning is apt to be decidedly disconcerting. He had voluntarily contracted to risk his life by fighting the Boche, but to be "downed" without the chance of seeing a shot fired in earnest was hardly playing the game.

"Hallo, Malcolm!"

Carr turned his head and peered into the face of his right-hand man. It was Dick Selwyn.

"Hallo, Dick! I didn't recognize your voice. How goes it?"

"So, so!" replied Dick. "Look here, I vote we stick together. Why aren't they lowering the boats? They don't seem in any sort of a hurry."

"Perhaps it is as well. You know----"

Again a bugle rang out. The ranks stiffened.

"Boys!" exclaimed the Colonel; "the Captain has just sent word that there is no immediate danger. There has been a slight explosion in a bunker. One compartment--the for'ard stokehold--is flooded. For the present the men will remain on deck. The cooks will issue a hot ration. Stand at ease!"

Out came pipes and cigarettes. The men began chatting and yarning, discussing the possibilities and chances of the catastrophe. The explosion had been an internal one, sufficient to cripple the vessel's engines. The question naturally arose as to whether it was the work of a Hun agent.

"I'd like to know who the idiot was who yelled out something about being torpedoed," remarked a rifleman.

"I did," owned up the man in question. "What about it?"

"If you were in C Company they'd give you poison," declared the first speaker contemptuously.

"And," retorted the other, "if I were in C Company I'd take it. As for----"

"Stop that!" ordered Sergeant Fortescue; then, turning to Malcolm, he added: "It shows the boys are settling down again. Sort of psychologic phenomenon; I've noticed it before. While there's danger they are as well-behaved as kids in a drawing-room; directly it's over they let themselves go and start treading on each other's corns. Well, here we are, midway between New Zealand and Cape Horn, with our engines broken down. A fine old jamboree!"

"We've wirelessed for assistance, I've been told," observed Malcolm.

"Aye," agreed Fortescue, "and received a reply. No. 101, which left Wellington two days after we did, sends a reassuring message. She's a faster boat, you know. But I might add," he said, lowering his voice, "that we've been warned that the See Adler is somewhere knocking around, and we have to take due precaution. Ah! There you are. They're serving out small-arms and ammunition to C Company."

The situation was a grave one. Lying helpless on the water was Transport 99, unescorted and with no other friendly vessel within ten hours' steaming of her. She was armed with two 4.7 guns both mounted aft. These were of little use against a swift hostile craft should the latter approach on a bearing three degrees on either side of the Awarua's bows. On the other hand there were half a dozen Maxims and nearly two thousand rifles on board, although these would be of little use if the raider kept beyond 200 yards' range.

Against an armed and mobile vessel the See Adler would stand but little chance. She was a sailing craft provided with a powerful motor installation. Earlier in the year she had caused a certain amount of sensation by her depredations in the Atlantic, until British cruisers made that locality too hot for her. She vanished mysteriously. There were vague rumours that she had been sent to the bottom by one of the Allied warships. It was now evident that she had rounded the Horn, making use of her sails only and keeping her motors for cases of emergency, and at the present was within a few miles of the transport Awarua.

Throughout the rest of the night the transport's crew manned the two stern-chasers. The Maxims, protected by coal-sacks and mealie-bags, were kept ready for instant action, while each company took duty in turn to man the side, ready to supplement the machine- and quick-firing guns with a fusillade of small arms.

Daybreak came, but with it no signs of the expected raider. Viewed from the deck, the Awarua showed no trace of the explosion beyond a slight list to starboard. The steam had been raised from the auxiliary engines, and the pumps were continuously ejecting water that made its way from the