"Cast off fore and after springs," continued the officer, telegraphing for "Half ahead, port engine".

Very cautiously the towing-craft forged ahead, turning sixteen points in almost her own length. In the darkness the manoeuvre was fraught with anxiety, for, had the slack of the hawser fouled the _Basher's_ propellers, the destroyer would have been as helpless as the craft she was endeavouring to save.

At length the wire hawser began to groan as, under the increased strain, it rasped through the fair-lead. Ever so slowly, yet surely, the _Calder_ gathered stern way in the wake of her consort, and presently she was nearing the Tyne at a rate of 7- knots.

With her helm lashed amidships, and without means of steering, the partly waterlogged craft yawed horribly, sheering alternately four points to port and starboard of the towing-vessel. Yet it was the only practical means of getting the destroyer into port. Had she been towed bows first, the already-weakened for'ard bulkhead would a.s.suredly have collapsed under the additional pressure of water.

"We may fetch Tynemouth," thought Sefton, as he watched the _Calder's_ erratic movements, "but she'll never be able to ascend the river.

She'll be barging into the banks and playing the deuce with everything."

He could think of nothing to check the damaged destroyer's behaviour. A scope of the cable trailing from the hawse-pipe might have served, had not anchors, struck by several projectiles, been immovably jammed in the hawse-pipes.

The same problem also confronted the skipper of the _Basher_, but he quickly settled it by wirelessing for a tug.

Dawn was just breaking when the _Calder_ arrived off Tynemouth. A powerful paddle-tug was lashed alongside, and the voyage up the river began.

In the busy shipyards on either side of the Tyne, the night shifts were still hard at work turning out new vessels for the British navy at the rate of one and a half a week, in addition to effecting urgent repairs to ships damaged in action or by floating mines.

"Lads," shouted a burly iron-caulker in stentorian tones, "here be a German prize bein' towed up t' river."

"Garn!" retorted his mate. "German prize, my aunt! You don't see no German flag a-flyin; under that British ensign. She's one of our plucky 'uns. Give her three times three, mates!"

The cheering, caught up with redoubled energy, greeted the battered _Calder_ throughout the whole length of her progress up the river. Her wounded lieutenant-commander, lying helpless in his bunk, heard the inspiring sound. He knew what it meant. A load had been lifted off his mind. His command was safe in port.

CHAPTER XVIII--Too Late!

"Eight days' leave--both watches."

The welcome order was given to the survivors of the _Calder's_ crew with a prompt.i.tude that betokened official regard and appreciation of the plucky destroyer's ship's company.

The _Calder_, safe in dock, was handed over to the care of the shipyard authorities. At high pressure, the task of getting her ready for sea once more would occupy the best part of two months, so badly had she been knocked about.

When in dry dock, a discovery was made that showed how narrow her escape had been from instant destruction. A large-sized German torpedo was found in her flooded forepeak, its head flattened against the inside of the bow-plates. Fired at a distance of a few yards, it had pa.s.sed completely through the thin metal hull, and, failing to penetrate the other side, had remained trapped in the waterlogged compartment.

Examination showed that the safety-fan in the head of the weapon had not had sufficient time to revolve and liberate the firing-pin. A difference of a few yards would have been enough to transform the innocuous missile into a deadly weapon, capable of shattering the _Calder_ like an egg-sh.e.l.l.

Having written up his report to the Commander-in-Chief, seen Crosthwaite safely into a sh.o.r.e hospital, and dispatched a telegram to his home announcing his safe return, Sefton bathed and turned in.

Six hours later he was up, feeling considerably refreshed. All that had to be done in an official sense had been carried out, and he was free to proceed on well-earned leave.

A steam pinnace landed him and his scanty belongings on the Gateshead side of the river. Clad in mufti, since his uniform was little more than a collection of scorched rags, the sub made his way towards the station.

Perhaps, now that the arduous period of responsibility had pa.s.sed, Sefton was feeling the reaction. At any rate his usual alertness had temporarily deserted him, for, on crossing a crowded thoroughfare, he narrowly escaped being knocked down by a pa.s.sing motor-car.

"Why don't you look----?" began the owner of the car; then: "Bless my soul, Sefton! Whoever expected to see you here! Thought you had been done in, 'pon my soul I did. Where's the _Calder_? And how's old Crosthwaite?"

The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Farnworth, Sefton's old shipmate on board the _Hammerer_, where both had served as midshipmen during the earlier stages of the war.

"They slung me out of the submarine service," said Farnworth, after Sefton had briefly replied to his friend's enquiries. "Why? Oh, merely a bit of bad luck! Crocked my leg, don't you know."

Farnworth was too modest to give details. He had vivid recollections of a dirty day in the North Sea, with submarine E-- lying awash, and a hostile mine foul of her bows. The plucky young officer, a.s.sisted by a couple of equally resolute seamen, succeeded in freeing the submarine from the unwelcome attentions of the metal globe, but in so doing the mooring-chain had surged, fracturing Farnworth's thigh as the heavy mine dropped clear.

It took three months at Haslar Hospital, followed by six weeks at Osborne, to set matters right, but the sub's leg was permanently shortened. To his great relief, Farnworth was not invalided out of the Service, although unfit for sea. He was given a good billet in the Intelligence Department, his district covering the Tyne ports, Hull, and Liverpool.

With a powerful car at his disposal, Farnworth was in clover. His sole regret was his inability to tread the planks of a British war-ship. The call of the sea was strong. He would willingly have relinquished his "cushy job" to be in command of the slowest little torpedo-boat flying the White Ensign.

"I'm keeping you," said Sefton at length.

"Not at all," said Farnworth, with a grin. "It's Government petrol I'm using, you know, and I'm not due at Liverpool until eight to-night. Do it on my head, so to speak. And you?"

"Just off to the station, old man," replied Sefton. "Want to get home to-night."

"Southampton? I doubt it, old bird. You've missed the express to King's Cross. No, I'm not to blame. It had gone long before you tried to commit hara-kiri under my car. Look here; hop in and I'll drop you at Manchester in plenty of time to pick up the through train."

Sefton accepted the invitation with alacrity. Being whisked through the air in a comfortable car was infinitely to be preferred to being cooped up in a railway-carriage after a tedious wait in a draughty station.

The ninety odd miles to Halifax was covered in two hours and a half, for, on the open road, Farnworth let the car all out, only slowing down while pa.s.sing through the big industrial towns that lay on his route.

"Now for a ripping stretch of country," exclaimed Farnworth enthusiastically. "Something to blow the cobwebs away, don't you know.

I always take this road in preference to the Hebden Bridge way. It's steeper, but the car can do it hands down."

Up and up, with very little reduction of speed, the high-powered car climbed. Sefton, drowsy for lack of sufficient sleep and from the effects of the strong air, failed to share his companion's enthusiasm.

Lulled by the rhythmic purr of the motor-car, he was fast becoming oblivious to his surroundings when Farnworth gave him a violent shake with his disengaged hand.

"What's wrong?" enquired Sefton.

"Sc.r.a.p," replied his chum laconically. "Something more than a dog-fight. What?" he muttered under his breath as he pulled up.

Twenty yards from the road was an overturned car. Close to it lay a khaki-clad figure, while engaged in a desperate struggle were two pairs of interlocked combatants. Approaching them with stealthy steps was a short, thickset, bullet-headed man holding an automatic pistol.

This much Sefton took in with a glance as he leapt from the car.

Fatigue and sleepiness had vanished in an instant. All he realized was that a party of motorists was being molested by a gang of armed roughs, and that was enough.

With Farnworth limping close at his heels, Sefton ran to the rescue. An encouraging shout from his companion caused the armed ruffian to turn.

Brandishing his pistol, he shouted a warning to the two new-comers to "clear out and mind their own business".

Undeterred by the sight of the weapon, the two subs bounded forward. A couple of bullets whizzed past Sefton's head, one of the pieces of nickel chopping a slice out of the lobe of Farnworth's left ear.

Before Hans could fire again, the deep report of a heavy revolver rang out, followed by a bluish puff of smoke from underneath the overturned car.

Clapping his hands to his side, the German spun round three times and collapsed to the ground.

As he pa.s.sed, Sefton kicked the fellow's pistol, sending it flying a dozen yards. If the Hun were playing 'possum, the sub meant to take no unnecessary risks.