"Good heavens!" exclaimed Cumberleigh. "It's von Preussen." "And as dead as a door-nail," added Morpeth. "I had an account to settle with him, too; but it's wiped out now. No; it wasn't my doings. One of their boats got swamped, so I went to the rescue. There was von Preussen hanging on to a life-buoy and looking as pleased as a dog with two tails--gloating over his share in the dirty work, I suppose. We weren't more than twenty yards off when there was an explosion--compressed air, you know. Up came a jagged plank and heaved von Preussen almost clear of the water. Killed him in half a shake. And then one of these wreaths came up and floated alongside of him just as we were slipping a bowline round his feet." "Poor devil!" ejaculated Cumberleigh. "It's strange that he met his fate that way. Sort of Nemesis." "Perhaps it was as well," added Meredith. "He would have been in a pretty hole had he got ashore." "Rather," agreed Morpeth. "Every Fritz, officer and man, is being shoved under arrest. Old von Reuter, the Admiral, is collared too. There's one thing: the Allies can't squabble over the disposal of the Hun Fleet now; so Fritz has unwittingly done us a good turn. Well, cheerio. I'll run my little lot of Huns across to the beach. Cheerful-looking cargo, eh?" Going dead slow, the steam pinnace headed towards the pier, the corpse of the spy towing astern; while M.L. 1497 "carried on," patrolling the land-locked waters upon which but a brief hour ago floated the fleet by which the German Emperor had hoped, and hoped in vain, to obtain the domination of the world. CHAPTER XXXV WHAT THEY FOUGHT FOR "CONFOUND it!" ejaculated Cumberleigh, ruefully contemplating a small amount of silver in his palm. "Bang goes another Bradbury. At this rate I'll be on the rocks before many days are over." "Cheer up, Mr. Cumberleigh," exclaimed Pyecroft, with a marked emphasis on the "Mister." "You're only just beginning to feel your feet." "You'll feel them in half a tick if you don't shut up," remarked the ex-R.A.F. captain grimly. "Now, then, Meredith, how's that patch setting? Or do we intend to stop here the night?" It was the month of August 1919. The four demobbed chums--Meredith, Wakefield, Cumberleigh, and Pyecroft--were again tasting of the mixed blessings of civil life, carrying out a long-promised vow that they would celebrate their release from active service by going on a motor-cycling tour through Glorious Devon and the Delectable Duchy of Cornwall. Barely three days had elapsed since Meredith and Wakefield found themselves "on the beach," with an accumulation of gear that they had acquired during their service afloat--kit that for the most part would be practically useless in the future.