"Müller had difficulties that I have not," replied von Riesser. "He was known to be in the Indian Ocean and swift cruisers were dispatched from England and Australia to hunt for him. Our presence on the High Seas will not be known to your Admiralty until it is too late. So, gentlemen, I must ask you to seriously consider the possibility of finding yourselves prisoners of war in our well-defended Colony of German East Africa." CHAPTER IV Threatened That night, according to their pre-arranged plans, the captive sub-lieutenants avoided taking any of the wines that were placed before them. They dined alone in a small cabin placed at least fifty feet from their sleeping quarters. As it was now after sunset the porthole was closed and locked. The door, too, was shut, but not secured. Outside, a sentry paced to and fro. "Look here, you fellows!" exclaimed Denbigh after the man deputed to attend to their needs had gone. "It's all very well knocking off the fizz, but they'll notice we haven't drunk any." "Pour it into the grate," suggested Pat O'Hara recklessly. Denbigh shook his head. "Won't do," he objected, giving a glance in the direction of the small "bogie" stove. "I suppose there isn't any possibility of prizing open the port-lid?" "You'd be spotted even if you could. There are plenty of men on deck," said O'Hara, glad of the opportunity of countering Denbigh's objection with another. "Come along, old bird; what do you suggest?" Stirling, to whom the invitation was addressed, thrust his hand into the breast pocket of his coat. "What would you do if I weren't here to look after you?" he enquired, at the same time producing three sponges. "I took them from our cabin." "For dessert?" queried O'Hara, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. "Yes, if you are a goat," said Stirling with asperity. "Goats are, I believe, rather partial to this sort of tack." Coolly the Scot poured out a wineglassful of sherry--it was from the same decanter that they had taken some the previous evening--and slowly spilt the liquid on the sponge. "Fill your glass first," cautioned Stirling. "Then they'll think we have had some of the poisonous stuff. Slip your sponge into your pocket, Denbigh. Don't squeeze it. I am presuming you'll want it again later. Of course if Pat wishes, he can chew his." Dinner over, the chums retired to their sleeping cabin. In fact they had no option, since they were forbidden to go on deck after sunset. Here they talked and looked at the illustrations of some old Spanish newspapers until lights out; then, turning in, they lay awake awaiting possible developments. Eight bells struck. The _Pelikan_ was no longer moving through the water. Outside the cabin men were talking. Springing from his bunk Denbigh approached the door, putting his ear to the covered jalousie.