A SUB
AND A SUBMARINE

Contents

CHAPTER I

Flirt's Indiscretion

"Come here, Flirt! Heel at once!"

Noel Fordyce had good cause to be anxious concerning his pet. It was the dog's first run with him for over five months, and, left during that period to well-meaning yet lax guardians, the animal had been reported out of hand; while, in her great joy and excitement, Flirt had apparently forgotten the discipline imparted during puppyhood.

Noel Fordyce, Sub-Lieutenant, R.N.R., was spending a fortnight's hard-earned leave at his parents' home on the outskirts of the naval town of Otherport. For five months he had been on submarine patrol work in the North Sea, including brief periods spent in a certain East Coast port while R19 was replenishing stores and fuel.

The Sub was a tall, broad-shouldered youth barely out of his teens. His complexion was dark; his eyes a deep grey that betokened resolution and determination. His lips were full, and firmly set in repose; but when he smiled he revealed an even set of white teeth that glinted in contrast to the mahogany tan of his weather-beaten face.

He was in mufti. For one thing, it was a change to slip out of uniform; for another, his uniform badly needed renewal. A strenuous period on board one of H.M. submarines is not conducive to longevity on the part of gold lace and blue cloth.

Flirt was an Irish terrier, now in her second year. Fordyce was deeply fond of the dog, and she was devotedly attached to him; but, unfortunately, Flirt had already had her "first bite", and was developing a tendency to fly at persons to whom she took a dislike.

Flirt obeyed the order to come to heel, but that merely aroused her suspicions. Coming towards the Sub was a tall, loosely-built man, whose chief peculiarities were his abnormally sloping shoulders and a shuffling gait. Fordyce knew him by name, although he had never spoken to him.

He was Councillor Mindiggle, a retired "something in the City", who had taken a house at Otherport a few months before the outbreak of war. Of a most plausible manner, and having strong Socialistic views, he soon gained a seat on the Town Council as a representative for a working-class district of Otherport. Always carelessly and almost meanly dressed, he nevertheless seemed well-provided with this world's goods, although he was reported to be a "near" man as far as spending was concerned.

It was the sight of Councillor Mindiggle's shuffling feet that upset Flirt. The dog never could tolerate a slovenly gait. Before Fordyce could stop her, she had flown at the man's legs, and was tearing down the street with a piece of cloth between her teeth.

"I'm awfully sorry," began the Sub. "I hope my dog hasn't bitten you?"

"Being sorry won't mend my trousers, Mr. Fordyce," replied the aggrieved man. "As for being bitten, I distinctly felt the brute's teeth. And it's not the first time she has flown at me. What have you to say to that?"

"Of course what is done cannot be undone in this case," continued Fordyce, "but if I can make any reparation——"

"The only reparation you can make is to have that dog destroyed," interrupted Councillor Mindiggle. "What's more, I mean to take out a summons against you for not keeping a dangerous dog under proper control. Good morning!"

The irate Mindiggle shuffled away, while Fordyce turned and walked back to his home, whither Flirt had preceded him and, with the trophy still in her mouth, was awaiting her master.

"What, back already?" enquired Mr. Fordyce. "Anything wrong?"

"Yes, Pater," replied his son. "Flirt has flown at that Mindiggle fellow. He must have hacked her some time ago or she wouldn't have gone for him like that," he added in defence of his pet.

"That animal will get you into trouble," declared Mr. Fordyce; "or, rather, I get the worry of her, since you are away most of the time. It's a pity you can't take Flirt with you."

The Sub had not thought of that possibility. A dog would lead a dog's life indeed on board a submarine. But a more urgent problem offered itself.

"Mindiggle swears he's going to take out a summons, Dad," he continued.

"Then it's your funeral—or Flirt's," added his parent grimly. "From Mindiggle's point of view he's justified in taking steps, to remove a public danger. I don't want our name to figure in the local police-court report, and you don't want to lose Flirt. So the best thing you can do is to allow Mindiggle to cool down a bit, and then call and see him. He may relent."

Noel Fordyce took his father's advice. Already he had sufficient experience of human nature to know that a man is in his best humour after a good meal; so that evening he called at the councillor's house, prepared to eat humble pie for the sake of his canine chum.

He was shown into the councillor's study, a large, well-furnished room, the window curtains of which were closely drawn. Over the roll-top desk was the only electric light that was switched on. The glare shone directly upon a small packet, tied with cord, and sealed with red wax. The Sub could not help noticing the address. The writing was in Russian characters, and was as follows:—

After keeping his visitor waiting a considerable time—Mindiggle rightly guessed that it was a supplicatory call—the victim of Flirt's animosity entered.

"Quite enough mischief done," replied Mindiggle guardedly in answer to Fordyce's enquiry. "But I may change my mind about that summons. You mentioned the word 'reparation'. Well, you can do me a service; sort of wheel within wheels, don't you know."

"In what way?" asked the Sub.

"You are leaving for the Baltic in submarine R19 in about fifteen days' time," asserted Mindiggle bluntly.

For some seconds Fordyce was completely taken aback. Submarine R19 was certainly under orders for Cronstadt, but the secret was supposed to be known only to the Admiralty and the officers immediately concerned.

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

The man shrugged his shoulders and looked the Sub fixedly in the face. There was something uncanny in the look. Fordyce felt as if those steely eyes were focused on a point in the back of his brain.

"What I have said is so," replied Mindiggle. "Now, to continue. Knowing you are bound for Russian waters, I want you to take this small packet," he indicated the sealed parcel on the desk, "and hand it personally to the addressee. To be open with you, I may mention that the contents of the packet consist of small diamonds, not of great intrinsic value in this country, but considerably so in Russia. If you will agree to do this, I for my part promise to take no further steps concerning your dog's unprovoked attack upon me this morning."

"Why can't you send the diamonds in the ordinary way?" asked Noel. "There would be less risk, and they could be fully insured. I presume that you have no wish to evade the customs duties?"

"You are very fond of that dog, I take it?" asked Mindiggle, evading the direct question.

"I am, tremendously so," admitted the Sub.

"Then this is my ultimatum. Either give me your word of honour to execute my commission or your dog will be destroyed by order of the court."

"You want me to transgress against the Defence of the Realm Act," rejoined Fordyce with rising temper. "I'll see you to blazes first. More than that, it will be my duty to report this conversation to the proper authorities."

"Do so, by all means," said Mindiggle suavely. "Do you think anyone would take your word against mine—a prominent municipal officer of this town? Remember, we have no witnesses. I would also point out that you have shown grave indiscretion (an unpardonable fault in a military or naval officer) by informing me of the date of departure of Submarine R19 and also her destination."

"It's my belief that you are tin-hatted," exclaimed Fordyce. "You mentioned those particulars: I did not."

"Until you told me, Mr. Fordyce, I was quite unaware of the number of your submarine or of your date of departure," reiterated Mindiggle. "I am afraid that in your agitation over the danger that threatens your pet you have lost control of your tongue."

"I've a good mind to lose control of my fist and to decorate your figurehead," thought Fordyce. "The fellow's tactics savour of blackmail or something suspiciously like it; but if I lay him out there'll be a most infernal row. Appearances will be against me."

"Don't be a fool," continued Mindiggle. "It's quite a simple matter. No risk about it, and nothing to prejudice the safety of the realm and all that sort of thing, don't you know. Now, then."

"I'll report the matter to the police," declared the Sub.

"Do so," was the calm reply. "Would the police believe such an accusation against a prominent member of the Watch Committee? Supposing—even supposing, mind—that they did take action and search my house. What would they find—nothing. Can't you realize that I hold the whip hand?"

"You can jolly well do what you like," answered the Sub.

An Ultimatum

Confronted with the mysterious problem Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce made his way to a secluded part of the sea-front. With a true sailor's instinct he paced up and down, debating with himself as to the course of action he should pursue.

If only he had a witness to the conversation. He racked his brains to formulate a scheme whereby he could discuss the matter again with Councillor Mindiggle, this time with a third person unseen but within earshot. Failing that there was little use in reporting the matter. As the fellow said, it was one man's word against another's, and the charge would appear so preposterous that it would stand no possible chance of being substantiated.

For similar reasons he dismissed the idea that he should report the case to his skipper, the Hon. Derek Stockdale, Lieutenant-Commander of R19. Mindiggle's statement that the Sub had informed him of the vessel's date of departure and destination would be an awkward factor in the matter.

So, rightly or wrongly, Noel Fordyce resolved to keep secret the interview with Councillor Mindiggle, at least for a time. Meanwhile he would fight to the bitter end to save Flirt from the lethal chamber.

Having shut the front door on his caller, Councillor Mindiggle returned to his study. As far as the rest of his household was concerned he was free from interruption. He had no wife; his housekeeper was stone deaf; the servant who had shown Fordyce into the room was going out for the evening.

It would have been a great surprise to Fordyce if he had known that there had been a third person within earshot, but such was a fact. Unlocking a door leading into an inner room Mindiggle released a man who, although he looked an Englishman, spoke in Russian.

"Don't you think, comrade, that you were much too rash?" he asked anxiously.

"Not at all, Boris Platoff," replied Mindiggle coolly. "On the contrary, I have hopes that we shall be relieved of a considerable amount of bother and danger. The diamonds will be in Petrograd before the great day. That young man will consent to my terms. It's wonderful what a hold one has over an Englishman who owns a favourite dog. Inform the police—bah! He would not dare risk the ridicule his action would bring upon him. Those diamonds will go in the submarine, you mark my words."

"Let us hope so," rejoined Platoff. "Then, either they will reach Comrade Klostivitch or else it will be an end to R19. It depends largely on the temperature in the Baltic, eh?"

Both men laughed softly.

"Supposing," continued the Russian—"Supposing—and we must consider possibilities—this English officer takes the diamonds and then hands them over to the authorities?"

"I'll have to take the risk of being convicted as a smuggler, comrade," replied Mindiggle.

"But if they are subjected to a test?"

"They will discover nothing. I defy the efforts of the world's laboratories to analyse the stuff," declared Mindiggle. "Acid, heat —nothing will avail."

"Except cold," added Boris Platoff.

"Then it will be what the ancient Egyptians call Nirvana," said the other grimly.

Boris Platoff was a Leninist, a member of the ultra-extremist party in Russia. Having, under German influence, taken a prominent part in wrecking the Russian Empire as a fighting-machine, he was doing his best to supplant the Kerensky regime by one of red-hot anarchy. While on a mission to the Russian Anarchist colony in London he had been given an introduction to a member of the World's Workers—a revolutionary society the object of which was the social democracy of every nation under the sun. This member's name was simply given as Comrade Ivan, known outside the brotherhood as Mr. John Mindiggle.

While posing both as an Englishman and a Russian, John Mindiggle was neither. He was a German—a Secret Service agent—whose work was entirely for the futherance of Kaiserism. During twenty years of practically continuous residence in Great Britain Ernst von Verbrennungsraum had been working unostentatiously, yet deliberately, for the Fatherland, for the day when Germany would become the mistress of the World and when freedom would be denied to all other nations large or small.

Von Verbrennungsraum's chance came when Russia took the suicidal step of exchanging the yoke of Czardom for that of unbridled "liberty". The first revolution that resulted in the abdication of the Czar Nicholas was a step in the right direction so far as Germany was concerned, but it was not far enough. The new republic still maintained an army on its Austro-German frontier—an army in which bravery and cowardice existed cheek by jowl. Utter internal chaos was what was desired in order to remove a menace to Germany's eastern frontier and thus enable her to throw thousands of troops into other sectors of battle.

To compass the downfall of the Kerensky regime the anarchists were to resort to a favourite device—explosives. In a secret laboratory was manipulated a new and extremely powerful chemical, which, in its final state, resembled, and could hardly be distinguished from, cut diamonds. It was a sample of this diabolical stuff that Mindiggle was in hopes of sending to Petrograd through the agency of Noel Fordyce.

Impossible to detonate by combustion, friction, or the application of heat, the explosive was perfectly safe to handle until the temperature fell below -5° C. The moment the mercury dropped to that point the explosive would simultaneously and spontaneously act.

In his attempt to induce Fordyce to convey the "diamonds" to Russia the German agent was employing a double-barrelled weapon. If the stuff did get to Petrograd well and good. If, on the other hand, the temperature on board the submarine should fall below -5° C. while running awash towards the port of Cronstadt, it meant utter annihilation to R19 and terrific damage to everything within a mile of the source of the explosion.

The Sub's Stratagem

Ernst von Verbrennungsraum had not taken into account one of Noel Fordyce's characteristics—that of grim, almost obstinate determination. Under the mistaken impression that, for the sake of his pet, the Sub would agree to his terms, the Secret Service agent applied for and obtained a summons.

"I'll fight him while I have a penny left to call my own," declared Fordyce, and with this laudable intention he engaged the best solicitor in Otherport.

The German could not now back out without loss of dignity as a respected member of the Otherport Town Council. He had to proceed with the case, unless Fordyce capitulated.

The morning of the day fixed for the hearing came round. Noel Fordyce, in uniform, made his way towards the Town Hall. Flirt was safely under lock and key. An hour would decide whether she was to live or die.

The young officer had not reached the end of the road when an Irish terrier bounded up to him. It was Nell, Colonel Richardson's animal and Flirt's mother, a quiet, affectionate and absolutely inoffensive little beast. Flirt did not inherit her one bad trait from her mother.

"Go back, Nell," ordered Noel. "Home! I can't take you for a stroll this morning."

The dog, for once in a way, took no notice of the command. After several vain attempts to send her back, Fordyce gave it up as a bad job, and with Nell close at his heels he entered the Town Hall.

The police on duty at the door of the court made no attempt to turn the animal off. They naturally but erroneously thought that this was the canine delinquent.

While Fordyce was chatting with his solicitor the dog began exploring. Round the well of the court she trotted, wagging her stumpy tail; then, receiving a friendly caress from the bewigged clerk, she proceeded, with scant regard to judicial authority, to the bench itself, where the Great Unpaid gave her a cordial welcome.

Just then Councillor Mindiggle appeared. Catching sight of the dog, the spy let himself go with a display of excitability that almost betrayed his Hunnish nationality.

"That's the dog!" he exclaimed. "The dangerous brute! Take care, gentlemen; she's vicious!"

The magistrates evidently thought otherwise. A ripple of laughter ran through the court.

"By Jove!" thought Fordyce, an inspiration flitting across his mind. "I'll risk it for Flirt's sake. Mr. Clinton," he said in a low tone to his solicitor. "We decided that I was not to be put into the witness-box. I've changed my mind. Call me as the first witness for the defence, if you please."

The solicitor shrugged his shoulders.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he remarked. "But as you like."

The court opened, Fordyce's case was the first to be called. The clerk read the indictment, the defendant pleaded not guilty, and John Mindiggle was asked to give evidence.

He did so, stating most emphatically on oath that the dog present in court was the animal that had bitten him.

Sub-Lieutenant Noel Fordyce, called and sworn, was equally emphatic in his statement that the dog was not with him on the day in question, and consequently could not have bitten the complainant. If he, Fordyce, had apologized, he had done so on behalf of another dog.

"And you can see for yourselves, gentlemen," he concluded, "that this animal is quite a harmless, well-conducted dog. I can affirm that to the best of my knowledge and belief she has never bitten or even attempted to bite anyone."

The magistrates consulted, and soon gave a unanimous verdict for the defendant.

"Costs, I presume, against the prosecution?" asked Fordyce's solicitor.

"Certainly; the prosecution is to pay costs," was the mandate.

Calling to the dog, the Sub left the court. Not until he was several streets away did he give vent to his pent-up feelings of delight.

"Well, old girl," he exclaimed, "you've saved my Flirt. By Jove, it was a rotten trick, though! I wouldn't have done it if that skunk hadn't tried to make me do an underhand job. He forced my hand. It was for Flirt's sake."

Had Fordyce known the true facts his qualms of conscience would not have troubled him in the least. As it was, the knowledge that he had won by means of a piece of sharp practice was not in accord with his instincts as an officer and a gentleman.

"Well?" enquired his father laconically.

"Verdict against Mindiggle, with costs," replied Noel.

"Dash it all!" exclaimed Mr. Fordyce when his son had told him of what had occurred. "You young scoundrel, I've half a mind to write to Mindiggle and explain. In any case, I'm not going to be saddled with Flirt while you're away. You'll have to find another home for her."

"Very well, Dad," replied Noel quietly, knowing that in such matters his parent's word was law.

It was Mr. Fordyce's decision that prevented Noel confiding in him concerning the interview with Mindiggle. In spite of his sense of independence the young officer was anxious to obtain advice on the matter, but now another possible chance was denied him.

"Hang it all!" he soliloquized. "I suppose it will keep a bit longer. The main point is that I didn't agree to the sweep's proposals, and I've scored heavily off my own bat. I'll spin the yarn to the Honourable Derek when we are making our passage to the Baltic. Let me see; what is that address? I have it: 'Klostivitch, 19, Bobbinsky Prospekt'. I'll jot it down in case I forget. It may come in handy. And now there's Flirt to consider. It won't do to send her to a place in Otherport; she'll be nipping somebody—Mindiggle again for a dead cert—and I'll find that she's been poisoned when I return. I'll run her over to Billy's show this afternoon. He'll look after her, I know."

Billy was Noel's cousin, a captain of the Loamshire Light Infantry, who, after being thrice wounded slightly, had been buried by a shell at Messines. He was now given home service, and was unlikely to be again sent abroad.

Billy Fordyce was stationed at Upper Todbury—a small village about twenty miles from Otherport—around which a large training-camp had sprung into existence. Since Flirt was very partial to khaki it was reasonable to suppose that the animal would take kindly to her new surroundings.

The Sub lost no time in putting his plan into execution. It was late in the afternoon when he brought his cycle-car round. At eight the following morning he had to report for duty.

"I believe Flirt knows there's something in the air, Pater," he remarked, as the dog obeyed the order to jump in with marked reluctance. Usually the prospect of a motor run made the terrier frantic with delight.

Noel took a roundabout route. It was a beautiful afternoon, the roads were in perfect order, and the car ran faultlessly. In just over the hour the Sub arrived at his cousin's quarters.

"I'll take care of her with pleasure," replied Billy in answer to his cousin's request. "But do you think she'll stop?"

"I think so," replied Noel. "If I tell her she'll obey. In any case she'd make her way back to Otherport, so you needn't be anxious. I pity the man who tries to steal her."

"To be on the safe side, I'll lock her up until to-morrow morning," said Billy. "That'll give you time to get clear. Sorry you can't stop to dinner, old man."

Bound for the Baltic

At seven the following morning a taxi-cab deposited Sub-Lieutenant Fordyce and his scanty baggage on the jetty at Otherport Dockyard. Here a steam pinnace was awaiting to convey him to H.M.S. Barnacle, an obsolete cruiser employed as a parent ship to the submarine flotilla of the Otherport Division.

Alongside the Barnacle lay R19, one of the most recent type of submarine craft. She was nearly three hundred feet in length, with a maximum beam of twenty-five feet. Over her bulging hull was a steel platform that afforded almost as much deck-space as that of a light cruiser. Amidships was the conning-tower, oval-shaped, with truncated walls. From the top of the conning-tower projected three tubes, each of about six inches in diameter. Of these two were periscopes—one for the use of the Lieutenant-Commander, the other to enable the helmsman to steer the vessel whilst submerged. The third had a double use. While running awash in a heavy sea it afforded means of ventilation; while diving it acted as a sound-conductor whereby the skipper of the submarine could tell with almost absolute certainty whether there were other vessels in the vicinity and in which direction they bore.

Surrounding the conning-tower, and extending twenty feet in its wake, was a steel platform facing the "bridge" of the vessel. Here was a binnacle containing a compass specially designed to withstand a tremendous pressure of water. Close at hand was a telegraph indicator communicating with the motor-room.

Around the deck were stanchion-rails, so arranged that they could be automatically lowered to lie flush with the deck when the vessel was trimmed for diving, thus offering no resistance to any obstacle that might be met with.

Two open hatchways, one for'ard the other aft, completed the visible fittings of the deck. The four 12-pounder guns, capable of being used as anti-aircraft weapons, were "housed" below, water-tight steel slabs fitting over the hermetically-sealed recesses in which the guns lay until required for action. In the wake of the conning-tower, and just clear of the raised platform, was another closed recess—longer than those for the quick-firers. This was to accommodate a "twenty-foot" whaler, which, with a couple of collapsible canvas Berthons, formed the complement of boats belonging to R19.

Down below, the accommodation was vastly superior to the earlier types of submarines at the outbreak of war. Transverse water-tight bulkheads divided the hull into five separate compartments, any one of which could be "holed" without completely destroying the buoyancy of the vessel. The foremost compartment contained the twin bow torpedo-tubes with their store of deadly 21-inch torpedoes. The latter, propelled by super-heated compressed air, had an extreme range of five miles, and could be relied upon to run with unerring aim under the influence of gyroscopically-actuated vertical and horizontal rudders. Beneath the torpedo-room was a roomy space for stores as well as the "cable-manger".

The second compartment was given over almost entirely to crew-space, providing sleeping and living accommodation for eighty men.

Next came the 'midship compartment, over which was the conning-tower. Here the officers "messed", each officer having a small separate cabin, while a large "ward-room" afforded comfortable quarters for meals and recreation. Here, too, was the wireless-room.

A steel ladder communicated with the conning-tower, which, when necessary, could be hermetically cut off from the rest of the interior by means of sliding panels working in indiarubber-shod grooves.

Underneath the officers' quarters was the 'midships torpedo-room. This was an innovation in the "R" Class. It enabled a torpedo to be discharged broadside, this obviating the necessity of keeping the submarine "bows-on" to her prey. Fore and aft were two tubes—mounted on "racers" or quadrants of a circle consisting of toothed gun-metal rails. The combined length of this torpedo and its tube was too great to allow the weapon to be "launched in" when the latter was trained athwartships. Consequently the tubes were loaded in a fore-and-aft position and swung round until the mouths engaged with a corresponding pair of flanged, water-tight tubes through either side of the hull. From the broadside tubes torpedoes could be trained through an arc of 30 degrees.

Compartment 4 was devoted almost entirely to machinery—propelling, pumping, and steering—while the aftermost subdivision contained the oil-fuel tanks and electrical storage batteries.

In each compartment were water-ballast, trimming-tanks, and air-locks for life-saving purposes in the event of the vessel being sunk in comparatively shallow water.

R19 had refilled and replenished stores and provisions. She was ready to "sail" at a moment's notice, directly the Lieutenant-Commander received orders from the Commander-in-Chief's office and had obtained the latest charts of the Baltic from the dockyard chart-room.

In the absence of the Hon. Derek Stockdale, the Sub reported himself to Donald Macquare, the senior lieutenant, who specialized in torpedo-gunnery, a tall, big-boned Scot whose abruptness of manner was apt to form a temporary disguise to a large-hearted nature. Macquare was still a young man—the submarine service had no need for middle-aged officers—and, without professing any claim to being a "Popularity Jack", was well liked by his brother officers and fearlessly respected by the crew.

"Good time?" he asked laconically.

"Rather!" replied the Sub. "And now I'm ready for anything—even another hand at bridge. I won the princely sum of one and eightpence from you last time, do you remember?"

The Lieutenant smiled. He remembered the incident when R19, lying in twenty-five fathoms on the bed of the North Sea, was being sought by a dozen hostile destroyers with "distance charges". At any moment the deadly explosive grapnels might have engaged and blown the strongly-built hull to pieces, yet the while the officers played cards, and the men listened to the muffled notes of a gramophone placed in a glass case to obviate any possibility of the Huns detecting the sounds of revelry.

"We're in for a busy time, laddie," remarked the Lieutenant. "This German offensive against Riga looks a serious matter, and I hear the Hun fleet is off to co-operate in the Gulf of Riga. For the life of me I can't imagine what these Russians are doing. It's proper dry rot. 'The glorious and bloodless revolution—the birth of a new Russia', as some of our statesmen expressed themselves. I'm afraid Russia's knocked out."

"Let's hope not," said Fordyce. "In any case, she did jolly well in the beginning of the war."

"Admitted," rejoined Macquare. "Which proves that the old regime, with its acknowledged defects, was infinitely preferable to the equality-for-all policy of the present day. Freedom! They'll find themselves in a pretty mess before they go very far with their chimerical search, you mark my words. Hallo, here's the skipper coming off."

The Hon. Derek came alongside in one of the steamboats belonging to the parent ship. Smartly returning the salutes of his colleagues, he stepped on board, followed by his coxswain, who bore under his arm a bundle of charts and a large blue envelope bound with red tape.

Lieutenant-Commander Stockdale was in his early thirties, a slimly-built man of medium height and of engaging manners. He had gained his present rank through sheer merit and whole-hearted devotion to the branch of the service in which he specialized. He had unlimited influence behind him; he could easily have secured a "warm billet" on one of the royal yachts, but he had steadfastly set his face against favouritism. Notwithstanding his exalted birth, he was in every sense of the word an officer and a gentleman. A firm disciplinarian, he was ever ready to consider a grievance on the part of his crew. Provided a man was keen and reliable, he could rely upon the skipper's impartiality, but woe betide the luckless individual who attempted to "get to windward" of the Hon. Derek.

It was noon before the signal was received for R19 to proceed. Meanwhile a dozen odd jobs had kept Fordyce busily engaged, and almost before he was aware of the fact the submarine, running awash at ten knots, had passed the "gate" in the boom thrown across the harbour's mouth. Then, increasing speed to eighteen, R19 shaped a course N.N.E., across the mine-infested North Sea.

The Stowaway

Lieutenant-Commander the Hon. Derek Stockdale stooped and patted the dog's head. Flirt, instinctively realizing that she was being caressed by a friend, wagged a stumpy tail and licked the skipper's tanned hand.

It was on the morning following R19's departure and Noel Fordyce's discovery. The submarine was still running awash. North, south, east, and west the horizon was unbroken. Sea and sky met in a sharp, well-defined line. Save for R19, the broad expanse of the North Sea appeared to be deserted, although none could tell what dangers lurked beneath the surface of the dull-green water.

The skipper was taking a stroll on deck when Noel appeared with the four-footed Stowaway. Lieutenant Macquare was on duty on the navigating-platform. For'ard of the conning-tower half a dozen bluejackets, clad in fearnought suits, evinced a lively interest in the proceedings.