s were cautiously scanning the shores of the inlet. Ross
could sniff the unmistakable Cornish air. The call of home seemed
irresistible. It looked a comparatively easy matter to slip quietly
over the starboard side, and swim with noiseless strokes towards the
weed-covered rocks that showed six feet or more above the sea. It was
half ebb-tide; there was little or no drift out of the cove. Under the
shadow of those dark cliffs detection seemed almost impossible, unless
the submarine went to the risky expedient of switching on her
search-light.

They moved stealthily towards the light wire railing on the starboard
side just abaft the conning-tower. Everything seemed in their favour.
Kapitan Schwalbe and the Unter-leutnant were on the navigation
platform, peering through their night-glasses towards the flat rock
that served as a landing-place. Two of the seamen were engaged in
coiling down a hand-lead line; the rest of the men on deck were
devoting their attention to the now departing canvas boat.

"Not so fast, my friends," exclaimed a low deep voice, which the lads
recognized as that of Kapitan Schwalbe. "Remember I have a pistol
ready to hand."

"How in the name of goodness did he know what we were up to?" thought
Ross.

The chums stood stock-still. They felt much like children found out in
some petty escapade.

"Koppe! Where are you?" asked the Kapitan in a loud whisper.

"Here, sir," replied the seaman.

"I hold you responsible for these Englishmen. Now they are trying to
give us the slip. Take them below. But hold on. Secure them to a
stanchion. Chain them up, and bring me the key."

The seaman approached the lads almost apologetically, and led them to
the port side just for'ard of the conning-tower. A light steel chain
was hitched round Ross's right ankle and Vernon's left, and deftly
padlocked round one of the uprights supporting the hand-rail.

"It is of no use trying any of your pranks here," commented Kapitan
Schwalbe, still in a low tone. "You are only looking for trouble."

For several moments all was still, save for the screech of a benighted
gull. Overhead a meteor passed swiftly across the sky, throwing a pale
gleam upon-the lurking submarine.

"Wer da?"

The words, although uttered in an undertone, travelled distinctly over
the placid waters of the cove.

The sailor in the boat muttered some inaudible reply. The listeners in
the submarine could detect the sound of his oar