n Rix, Ober-leutnant of unterseeboot," he announced. "Der
Kapitan send me to see how you get better. Goot! I tell seaman to
bring food quick. In one hour you go on deck. Den you feel all well."

The German Leutnant bent and peered into the lower cot.

"Fat head," he remarked seriously. "Bad knock, but he get well soon."

With that the officer went away, leaving the light switched on.

Scrambling out of his bunk, Ross approached his chum. Vernon was now
sleeping quietly. His face, however, was flushed, while it was quite
evident that he had received a fairly heavy blow across the skull, for
the top of his head was swollen to a considerable extent.

Before Ross had finished his examination a sailor entered, bearing a
tray on which were three slices of rye bread, some tinned beef, and a
bottle of Rhenish wine.

"Sprechen Sie deutsch?" he asked.

For an instant Trefusis hesitated before replying. To profess
ignorance of the German language would be an immense advantage while on
board the submarine, provided he could control his facial expressions
and listen without betraying himself. Then, on the other hand, he
reflected that Ramblethorne, the spy, might have been instrumental in
getting him into this predicament. More than likely the Captain of the
submarine had been informed of the fact that his unconscious passengers
were well acquainted with the tongue-twisting language of the
Fatherland.

"Here is food for you," said the man, placing the tray on the floor.
"You had better take hold of the bottle before it upsets. We are
rolling a bit. When your friend open his eyes, call me. I am in
yonder compartment. It would be well for you to dress. I will bring
your clothes to you very soon."

Ross made a sorry meal. The food was not at all appetizing. His
throat was in no condition to enable him to swallow easily. A feeling
of nausea, due either to the motion, the hot, confined air, or the
after effects of the stupefying injection--perhaps a little of all
three--was still present.

He was actually on board a German submarine--one of Tirpitz's
twentieth-century pirates. He racked his brains to find a reason.
With its limited accommodation an unterseeboot seemed the last type of
craft that would receive a pair of prisoners--and
non-combatants--within its steel-clad hull. It must have been at
Ramblethorne's instigation; yet why had not the spy knocked the pair of
luckless eavesdroppers over the head