The Submarine Hunters by Percy F. Westerman (ebook pc reader txt) 📖

shouting in mad panic. They realized their awful peril. Caged like rats in a trap, they felt certain that the cruiser was foundering, and that they would be carried down in a living tomb until the pressure of water burst open the comparatively strong steel walls of the cell.

At length the chief of the ship's police forced the door of the nearmost cell. By sheer good luck he inserted the key into the lock without having to fumble for the opening. The prisoner, a young seaman who had broken out of the ship at Halifax, was too terrified to know his way to safety. He clutched at the master-at-arms, following him to the next cell.

The water was now waist-deep. In trying to find the keyhole the master-at-arms dropped the keys. It took some minutes to find them—a loss of valuable time.

The noise of the inrushing water was deafening. For all the petty officer knew, the ship might be about to make her last plunge. Yet his duty lay before him. At the risk of his life the prisoners must be set free.

A light appeared upon the scene. A ship's corporal, bearing a lantern, descended to the flat with the laudable intention, of assisting his superior.

The door of the second cell flew open, but a rush of water on the flood, under the movement of the stricken vessel surged and swept the master-at-arms off his feet. His forehead came in violent contact with the steel frame of the door, and, rendered senseless, he dropped inertly upon the flooded floor of the passage.

"Pull yourselves together, men!" exclaimed the corporal to the two prisoners. "You're all right. Bear a hand here."

Together they carried the unconscious master-at-arms out of the flat. The corporal returned to liberate the occupier of the third cell—von Hauptwald. But once again the keys were missing, having slipped from the insensible man's hand.

The water in the confined space was now shoulder-deep. The corporal could hear the stout bulkhead groaning under the pressure. Fixing the lantern on a bracket he dived, groping with both hands for the keys. At length he found them, and threw open the door of the cell.

"Out you come!" he shouted.

There was no reply. Von Hauptwald had ceased to shout for some minutes. The silence was ominous.

A movement of the badly stricken ship sent the water well over the corporal's head. He was swept off his feet. It was time for him to get back to safety. He had done all he could. The spy was dead.

CHAPTER XXIV "Shrap"

It was late in the afternoon when the Oxford arrived, under her own steam, at Rosyth. Although the dry docks were in use, accommodation was quickly found for the damaged cruiser by the simple expedient of floating out a battleship that was being cleaned and recoated with anti-fouling composition. Since speed is an absolute necessity for efficiency in war-time, it was the practice to dock all the ships of the battle-cruiser and armoured cruiser class in rotation, the margin of safety being sufficient to allow this to be done without impairing the strength of the squadrons.

By the aid of powerful arc-lamps the dockyard hands took the crippled Oxford into dock, and, the caisson having been replaced, the water was quickly pumped out. The damage done was found, on examination, to be limited to a space extending 30 feet from the bows. The actual aperture caused by the explosion measured 6 feet by 30 inches, but the adjacent plates had been buckled and the bolts "started" under the violent concussion. Well it was that the armoured bulkhead had withstood the strain, otherwise nothing could have saved the ship.

There was no delay in setting to work. Almost before the last of the water had been pumped out of the dock, stagings were built up round the bows, and scores of shipwrights set to work to rebuild the damaged portion of the hull. Under normal conditions the work would have taken a couple of months, but, by working day and night, the efficient dockyard staff hoped to effect repairs within nine days.

Since the commencement of the greatest war the world has ever yet seen, it was the custom to allow the officers and crews of torpedoed or mined ships—if they were fortunate enough to be numbered amongst the survivors—seven days' leave. A rest on shore was necessary for the crews to recover from the mental shock, for it was found that although the men might escape from physical injury and appear bright and cheerful immediately after the occurrence, the reaction was most marked at about forty-eight hours afterwards.

Ross and Vernon, although not borne in the books of the Oxford, received permission to go on leave. Since Haye's father was somewhere in the North Sea, and he had no near relatives, he gladly accepted Ross's offer to sample again the hospitality of Killigwent Hall.

It was late when their train arrived at King's Cross; so much so that the lads realized it would be useless to attempt to catch the Cornwall express that would land them at St. Bedal just before midnight.

"I vote we have an evening in town," suggested Vernon. "Let's go to a theatre. It seems ages since I was inside a music hall, or even a picture palace."

"All right," agreed Ross. "We'll have a jolly good square meal before we go. I know of a decent little hotel just off the Strand."

The two midshipmen took the Underground as far as Charing Cross. As they emerged from the station they renewed their acquaintance with the metropolis in war-time. The streets were plunged in almost Stygian darkness. Omnibuses and taxicabs crawled painfully through the gloom; pedestrians were cannoning into each other at every step. The only relief to the blackness were the two search-lights from the Admiralty Arch that swung like gigantic pendulums across the dark and misty sky.

"Let's get out of it," exclaimed Ross, as he just managed to save himself from being run down by a motor-car. "It's a jolly sight more dangerous than keeping the middle watch on the old Capella."

Five minutes later they were sitting down to an ample dinner, provided at a cost that proved pretty conclusively the futility of the German submarine blockade. In the well-lighted room there was little to suggest that business was not proceeding "as usual", except perhaps the predominance of khaki-clad officers.

A string band was discoursing the latest operatic music, the diners were laughing and chattering. Within, the gaiety and light-heartedness contrasted violently with the dismal gloom inflicted upon the metropolis as a result of precautions adopted by the triple authorities responsible for its defence against air-craft.

Presently the band finished one item on the programme. The comparative silence that followed was almost immediately interrupted by a series of sharp reports, punctuated by a deeper crash.

"Zepps!" exclaimed a dozen voices.

Instantly there was a rush—not for the deep cellars underneath the building, but for the open street. The white faces of a few of the guests showed that they had, perhaps, a little anxiety, but for the most part an excitable curiosity took possession of the crowd.

"Come on!" exclaimed Ross to his chum. "Let's see the fun. We haven't had a chance of seeing a real Zepp before."

The lad's words voiced the thoughts of nine-tenths of the dwellers of the metropolis who were within sight of the would-be Terror of the Air. Useless, indeed, were the official warnings as to the right thing to be done when the Zeppelins came. One man, however, drew a respirator from a hand-bag and proceeded to don it, until a roar of laughter from the stream of people issuing from the hotel caused him somewhat shamefacedly to replace the useless article.

Into the street the lads elbowed their way. The progress through the long corridor of the hotel reminded them of a football scrum. It was not the blind rush of panic; merely a desire to lose nothing of the "fun".

A couple of thousand feet overhead, a silvery-grey, bluff-pointed cylinder was moving with apparent slowness. Half a dozen search-lights concentrated their beams upon it. All around were rings of smoke, marking the bursting shells from the anti-aircraft guns; yet, apparently untouched by the hail of bullets, the giant gas-bag passed on, hurling out death and destruction upon the greatest city on earth—a city that, until the present war, had only once heard the thunder of hostile guns.

Breathlessly the lads watched the progress of the huge Zeppelin, momentarily expecting it to collapse and come tumbling, a tangled mass of flaming wreckage, to the ground. Viewed from below, it seemed impossible for the airship to escape the bursting shells. The air was rent by the crash of falling bombs and the sharp reports of the "anti's", while in the distance could be heard the clatter of broken glass. The explosive bombs wrought havoc upon the homes of harmless Londoners. Flames, too, were springing up, throwing a lurid glare upon the sky.

Yet, unless actually within radius of the German explosives, the populace was remarkably calm. Men, women, and children watched the Zeppelin, much in the same way as if they were witnessing a Brock's display at the Crystal Palace. Once again German frightfulness had failed—and failed badly—to attain its desired end.

"Hurrah! She's got it properly in the neck," shouted an excited special constable, as the Zeppelin gave a sudden lurch and began to drop at an acute angle.

But the next instant the silvery envelope was hidden in a cloud of dense black smoke. Seconds passed, but no shattered wreckage streamed earthwards. When the vapour dispersed, the Zeppelin was nowhere to be seen. Under cover of the smoke-cloud she had dropped a large quantity of ballast, and had soared skyward to a great altitude.

Gradually, like the rumble of a passing thunderstorm, the reports of the distant anti-aircraft guns died away. The Zepps had taken themselves off, leaving half a dozen fires and hundreds of more or less damaged buildings to impress upon the strafed English that insularity is no longer a protection from the cowardly night-raiders of the air.

"The show's over," declared Ross. "I vote we turn in. By Jove, there'll be a rush to the recruiting offices to-morrow!"

Requesting to be called at eight, the two midshipmen entered the lift and were whisked up to their room.

"What's that noise?" asked Vernon, pausing in the midst of unpacking his portmanteau.

"Something in the corridor," replied Ross.

"I don't think so. It's something or someone under my bed. Lock the door, old man; no, don't ring, if it's a burglar we'll tackle him."

Haye knelt by the bedside, Ross standing behind him ready to grapple with the intruder. Cautiously Vernon lifted the valance. As he did so he quickly withdrew his hand, which had come in contact with something warm and moist.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed. "It's a dog. Come out, sir!"

He was right. The animal gave a low whine, but made no attempt to budge.

"Mind the brute doesn't fix you," cautioned Ross.

"No fear," replied his chum confidently. "All dogs take to me. Come along, old boy."

Again he groped with his hand. His fingers touched the long, silky hair on the animal's neck. Slowly he drew the creature from its place of concealment. It was a sheep-dog pup, of about four months.

"Pretty-looking dog," exclaimed Vernon. "I wonder how it came here? Suppose it was frightened at the racket. It looks terrified out of its wits. Good dog!"

The pup fixed its large brown eyes upon Vernon's face, and attempted to wag its stumpy tail. As it did so the lads discovered that its hind quarters were tinged with blood.

"Oh, you poor little beggar!" said Vernon sympathetically. "However did you get that? I say, Ross, fill that basin with water."

"Better send for the boots," suggested Trefusis. "He'll take it to a vet.'s, or perhaps he'll know whose dog it is."

"Not much chance of finding a vet. at this time of night," objected Vernon. "Even the chemist will be busy with minor casualties. No, I won't worry the