“Jump!” I cried. “Jump!” And I held out my arms to her. Instantly as though with implicit confidence in my ability to save her, she leaped over the side of the tug onto the sloping, slippery side of the U-boat. I reached far over to seize her hand. At the same instant the tug pointed its stern straight toward the sky and plunged out of sight. My hand missed the girl’s by a fraction of an inch, and I saw her slip into the sea; but scarce had she touched the water when I was in after her. The sinking tug drew us far below the surface; but I had seized her the moment I struck the water, and so we went down together, and together we came up—a few yards from the U-boat. The first thing I heard was Nobs barking furiously; evidently he had missed me and was searching. A single glance at the vessel’s deck assured me that the battle was over and that we had been victorious, for I saw our survivors holding a handful of the enemy at pistol points while one by one the rest of the crew was coming out of the craft’s interior and lining up on deck with the other prisoners. As I swam toward the submarine with the girl, Nobs’ persistent barking attracted the attention of some of the tug’s crew, so that as soon as we reached the side there were hands to help us aboard. I asked the girl if she was hurt, but she assured me that she was none the worse for this second wetting; nor did she seem to suffer any from shock. I was to learn for myself that this slender and seemingly delicate creature possessed the heart and courage of a warrior. As we joined our own party, I found the tug’s mate checking up our survivors. There were ten of us left, not including the girl. Our brave skipper was missing, as were eight others. There had been nineteen of us in the attacking party and we had accounted in one way and another during the battle for sixteen Germans and had taken nine prisoners, including the commander. His lieutenant had been killed. “Not a bad day’s work,” said Bradley, the mate, when he had completed his roll. “Only losing the skipper,” he added, “was the worst. He was a fine man, a fine man.” Olson—who in spite of his name was Irish, and in spite of his not being Scotch had been the tug’s engineer—was standing with Bradley and me. “Yis,” he agreed, “it’s a day’s wor-rk we’re after doin’, but what are we goin’ to be doin’ wid it now we got it?” “We’ll run her into the nearest English port,” said Bradley, “and then we’ll all go ashore and get our V. C.’s,” he concluded, laughing. “How you goin’ to run her?” queried Olson. “You can’t trust these Dutchmen.” Bradley scratched his head. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “And I don’t know the first thing about a sub.” “I do,” I assured him. “I know more about this particular sub than the officer who commanded her.”