The canvas boat was still afloat. Some distance from the point of impact of the torpedo she had withstood the suction of the sinking vessel, and was now bobbing sluggishly to the undulations caused by the rebound of the disturbed water from the sides of the creek. The two German seamen, staring with wide-open eyes as if terrified by the appalling nature of the catastrophe, were crouching in the Berthon, while through the oil-spread water a third man was laboriously swimming towards her. "We'll let them go," decided the skipper. "They can tell their pals of the convoy that their second journey is for nothing. Besides, under forthcoming conditions, we have no room for prisoners of war." "There's another bloke, sir," sung out one of the crew. "He's pretty nigh done for, I'll allow." The Lieutenant-Commander looked in the direction indicated. A fourth member of the complement of the ill-starred _unterseeboot_ swimming listlessly and aimlessly. He was apparently in the last stages of exhaustion, and although his plight was observed by the men in the canvas boat, either they were too callous or too stunned by the after-effects of the catastrophe to attempt to row to his assistance. "Is there plenty of water, Mr. Crosthwaite?" asked the skipper. "Plenty, sir." "Easy ahead," ordered Huxtable. "Stand by with a line, men." Slowly the submarine approached the drowning man. Too much way would not only be a detriment to his rescue, but would hazard the safety of the vessel. Two coils of rope were hurled at the luckless German, but although both fell almost within arm's length of him he made no effort to grasp them. "Good heavens!" ejaculated Farnworth, "he's blind." "He's going!" shouted a man. "If he gets his head under the oil he'll never come up again." "Bravo!" exclaimed the skipper as a brawny bluejacket kicked off his sea-boots and, without attempting to rid himself of his fearnought coat and sweater, plunged overboard. A dozen strokes brought him to the wellnigh unconscious Teuton. Seizing the fellow by the collar, his rescuer towed him alongside the submarine, where willing hands hauled both on deck, the German muttering and gibbering incoherently, not knowing whether he was in the hands of friend or foe. "Lay on your oars!" shouted the Lieutenant-Commander in German to the men in the Berthon, who were now beginning to pull for the shore. They only redoubled their efforts; and it was not until the submarine overhauled the boat, and ranged up so close that there was not room to swing an oar, that the Germans sullenly obeyed the summons to surrender.