the quiet response. “We have no room for them. We are carrying a full crew, as you know, and have no room for another man.”

“But it is terrible to let them drown,” protested Frank.

“True,” replied his commander, “and yet think how some of our merchant vessels have been sent to the bottom without warning and their crews to a watery grave, noncombatants though they were. It is retribution; no less.”

Frank was silent, but he stood watching the struggling German sailors with an anxious eye.

Now the officers aboard the sinking vessel had succeeded in gaining some semblance of order from the confusion that had reigned a few moments before, and the enemy was going about the work of launching the boats more coolly and successfully.

At last all the boats and the crew had left the ship—all but one man, who still stood calmly upon the bridge. This was the commander, who, rather than leave his ship, was preparing to go down with her. In vain did his officers from the boats call upon him to jump. To all their calls he turned a deaf ear, and stood calmly at his post, with folded arms.

Now the sinking vessel began to settle more swiftly. Suddenly she seemed to leap clear of the water, there came a thundering roar, and then, seeming to despair of her efforts to keep afloat, she dived, in another moment she disappeared and the waters of the North Sea closed with an angry swirl over the mighty German warship and her gallant commander.

“Well, she’s gone,” said Jack quietly.

“Then we may as well go also,” declared Lord Hastings. “Shape your course due west, Mr. Templeton.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Jack, saluting, and he disappeared below.

Lord Hastings and Frank continued to peer at the flotilla of German small boats, which, at a command from the officer in charge, had shipped their oars and were pulling toward the east with lusty strokes.

“I hope they make land safely, or are picked up,” said Frank.

“So do I,” replied his commander. “Come, we shall go below.”

The D-16 again on her way, Frank betook himself to his own quarters, which he and Jack shared together. Here he was surprised to see the latter cutting a notch on the side of the highly polished small table in the center of the cabin.

“What are you doing there?” he asked in surprise. “What are you cutting up that table for?”

“Well,” said Jack, “in reading some of your American literature, I learned that every time one of your wild westerners killed a man he cut a notch on his gun. I’m following along the same lines, only I intend to cut a notch on this table every time we sink one of the enemy.”

“Quite an idea, that,” said Frank. “But when you say you read that stuff in American literature, you are wrong. I won’t deny that you have read it, but I’d call it American fiction, not literature.”

“Never mind,” said Jack, “it’ll answer my purpose, whatever you call it.”

“Guess I’ll turn in for a couple of hours,” said Frank. “I’m feeling rather tired.”

“Help yourself,” replied his friend. “I want a few words with Lord Hastings.”

He left the cabin, while Frank, kicking off his shoes and removing his coat, threw himself down on his bed, and in a few moments was fast asleep. As he is taking much needed repose, we will take the time to introduce these two lads more fully.

Jack Templeton, the son of an Englishman, had spent the better part of his life in a little village on the north coast of Africa. His father, who owned a small store, had been his only instructor, but in spite of this the lad had been given a first-class education. He was well read in literature and history,