"Confound the fellow! He evidently imagines that British subjects drink nothing but beer," thought the Sub. "No, I don't want beer," he aloud; "bring me something cool--cold--not hot, savvy?" "Me--Ahmed Djezzar--go. Me your fliend," announced the man; and placing his hand over his heart and bowing subserviently, he noiselessly glided out of the room, locking the door as soon as he was outside. "Rummy proceedings, 'pon my soul," soliloquized Dick. "The fellow says I'm a prisoner of war. I suppose he's right; but there's one thing to be said: up to the present they have treated me pretty decently. The Turks are streets above the Germans in the way they handle their prisoners. I wonder what the game is?" Taking into consideration the dirty and untidy habits of the Turks, the room was fairly clean and presentable. If his informant was right, Dick Crosthwaite was now in a portion of one of the fortresses actually on The Narrows, and roughly twenty-one miles from Yenikeui. During the interval between the times of his having been rendered unconscious in the affray on the beach and of recovering his senses, he had been carried over hilly roads running practically parallel to the Asiatic shores of the Dardanelles. Why his captors should have gone to this trouble he knew not. He could only come to the conclusion that, fearing a landing in force to the south of Kum Kale, they had removed their prisoners to quarters where for the time being they were not likely to be recaptured. Propping himself up by his elbow Dick listened intently. To his intense disappointment he heard no sounds of guns--not even a distant rumble. Did it mean the operations had been abandoned? He began wondering what had happened to the rest of the boat's crew; why his captors should have detailed a Turkish bluejacket to attend the two wounded officers; and why Ahmed Djezzar had so vehemently expressed himself as being a friend. These and a hundred other thoughts flashed through his mind, until his reveries were interrupted by the reappearance of the Turk bearing a metal tray on which was a brass cup and a jug filled with sherbet water. Dick drank eagerly. As he did so a faint suspicion that the liquid might be poisoned entered his brain, only to be quickly dismissed, since he recognized that if his captors had wished to dispose of him they had already had ample opportunities. Nevertheless the sherbet water was drugged, and it had the result of sending the Sub to sleep for several hours. He awoke, feeling considerably refreshed, to find that young Farnworth was sitting up in bed and regarding him with eagerness. "Thought you'd never wake up, sir," he remarked. "You've been sleeping heavily for at least twelve hours." "How are you feeling?" asked Dick. "Pretty rotten," admitted the midshipman. "Head feels like a block of wood. But it isn't that: it's the beastly knowledge that we are off the fun for the time being."