in front of Ken.

'Tie him,' said Ken.

'I am an officer,' said Kemp haughtily. 'I will not be bound like a common
criminal.'

'You were an English ship's steward when I last saw you,' Ken retorted.
'And engaged in the charming occupation of signalling out of the bathroom
port to an enemy submarine.'

It was evidently no news to Kemp that Kenneth Carrington was his adversary
of the bathroom. Dark as it had been, he must somehow have recognised him.
He glared back defiantly.

'I was serving my country,' he answered with a lofty air.

'And what do you think would have happened to a Britisher who had been
caught on a German ship, engaged in an act of such abominable treachery?'
returned Ken hotly.

Kemp merely shrugged his shoulders.

'Well, it's not for me to deal with you,' said Ken. 'We'll take him back,
Roy, and he'll stand a proper court-martial. Still, as he calls himself an
officer, I suppose I must take his parole.'

'Do you give it?' he demanded of Kemp.

Kemp's sallow face had gone white, but whether from fear or rage was
doubtful. 'Yes,' he said in a low voice, 'I give my parole.'

They turned, and with Kemp between them, set out at a sharp pace in the
direction from which they had come.

From the distance rifles still snapped, and a couple of miles away to the
south-west field-guns were booming. But all around was strangely quiet.
Ken began to feel a trifle uneasy. He realised that they had got a long
way ahead of their comrades, and that the latter had already been
recalled.

'Quite nice and peaceful up here, eh, Ken?' said Roy with his cheerful
grin.

Before Ken could reply there came a shot from somewhere quite close at
hand, and with a sharp cry Ken dropped his rifle.

'Winged, old chap?' said Roy, turning quickly.

As he did so Kemp made a dash, and hurled himself up the slope to the
left.

'Never mind me!' cried Ken. 'Catch Kemp. Shoot him. Stop him anyhow.'

Roy flung up his rifle and took a snap shot.

He missed, and before he could pull the trigger a second time, the
ex-steward had dived like a weasel into a clump of scrub and was gone.

Roy dashed up the bank in hot pursuit. The moment he showed himself a
regular volley of rifle shots rang out, and spinning round he sprang back
into the hollow.

'There's about twenty Turks coming hard up the next gully,' he panted.
'We've got to bunk like blazes if we want to save our skins.'

CHAPTER VIII

THE HUNTERS HUNTED