The surprise of M.L. 1071's officers was more than equalled by the consternation of the skipper of the submarine, who burst out into a torrent of eager questions. "Then I've sunk you, by Jove!" exclaimed the latter. "How was I to know? Why the deuce didn't you make your private signal? You fired first, you know." "Admitted," replied Wakefield. "We spotted what we took to be a U-boat and, having had official information that none of our submarines was within eighty miles of us, we naturally let rip the moment we sighted you." He gave a quick glance at the deck and superstructure. "Any damage?" he asked. The other smiled grimly. "Not to us... 'Fraid I cannot congratulate you on the excellence of your gunnery. Every shell went overhead handsomely." The gun-layer of M.L. 1071's six-pounder, overhearing the remark, groaned at the slight upon his marksmanship. "Sorry I can't return the compliment," observed Wakefield. "You caught us a beauty--only it failed to explode or we wouldn't be here. As it is, I've lost my command and sustained a couple of casualties. Rough luck!" "Rough luck indeed!" rejoined the other sympathetically. "Come below and have a glass of grog. I'll have your men attended to. We must cut your boat adrift, I'm afraid." Meredith followed the two lieutenant-commanders to the little ward-room, which, though small, was not chock-a-block with the usual appendages to a submarine's officers' quarters. The skipper of the boat threw off his oilskin, revealing a burly figure rigged out in the uniform of a lieutenant-commander R.N.R. In height he was over six feet, with massive neck and bull-dog features. His face was tanned a deep red that contrasted vividly with his light-blue eyes and white, even teeth. From the outer corner of his left eye to within an inch of the extremity of his jaw-bone ran a greyish scar that tended to accentuate the grim tenacity of expression. "Sit you down," he said, in unmistakably Northumbrian accents. "A stiff peg will pull you fellows together, although the sun's not over the fore-yard. But let that slide. What's your name?" Wakefield gave the required information and introduced Meredith to the burly R.N.R. skipper. "Morpeth's my tally," announced the latter, in answer to Wakefield's inquiry: "Geordie Morpeth, or 'Tough Geordie,' as they used to call me when I was first mate in the Foul Anchor Line--them that runs cattle boats to Monte Video, you might remember." "Tough work, eh?" inquired Wakefield. "You're about right," agreed Morpeth. "Handling a crew of Dagoes and such-like takes a bit of doing. My present job is an easy one in comparison." "What made you go in for the Submarine Service?" asked Meredith. The bull-necked R.N.R. officer leant back in his chair and laughed uproariously.