"The theatre people can try," replied Cumberleigh grimly. "Hope they'll accept the excuse: unavoidable absence." "Wonder how Pyecroft got on?" remarked Jefferson. The three R.A.F. officers were cooped up in the otherwise empty storeroom of U 247. They were in utter darkness. The place was damp, ill ventilated, and reeked abominably. Moisture was constantly forming on the curved angle-iron deck beams and dripping promiscuously upon the captives. "It is presumed that the genial captain of this vessel," continued Jefferson, "has not yet invested in a cinematograph. If he had it would be reasonable to suppose that he would have us on deck at regular intervals, supply us with cigarettes and cock-tails, and at the same time take a film to let neutrals know how benevolent and humane the Hun is when he is on the warpath. I am afraid my surmise is correct. Therefore we languish in captivity." "Anyone any idea of the time?" inquired Cumberleigh. "My watch says half-past three, but I can't depend upon it." "Mine shows ten o'clock," reported Blenkinson, consulting the luminous dial of his wristlet watch. "Unfortunately it omits to inform me whether it is AK Emma or PIP Emma, and I'm hanged if I know which it is." "My watch went west the day before yesterday," said Jefferson. "The best Waterbury in existence is not proof against the back-fire of a six-cylinder car. Now if that fellow Fennelburt were here, he had a ripping little watch, I noticed." "By the way, what happened to Fennelburt?" inquired Cumberleigh. "Happened?" echoed Jefferson. "Why he's in the cart, same as us. Hard lines on the chap--taking him out on a joy trip and then landing him in this mess." Cumberleigh grunted. He was not at all sure that he agreed with Jefferson's sentiments. Not that he had any suspicion that Fennelburt had conjured up the U-boat to take the Salvage Syndicate prisoners. The suggestion that the party should go fishing emanated from himself. Yet it was somewhat curious that Fennelburt should be separated from the others. The three Auldhaig Air Station officers had had a sticky time during the last twenty-four hours. During that period they had been twice supplied with scanty and unappetising meals; they had dozed fitfully in the foetid atmosphere of their cell, but up to the present they had not been allowed on deck to get a breath of fresh air. "Hope old Pyecroft pulled it off all right," remarked Blenkinson. He had harped on the matter at least a dozen times. Pyecroft had been his special pal. They had flown over the German lines together; they had crashed in the same 'bus; they had spent six weeks in the same hospital--in all, quite sufficient to cement a casual acquaintance into a lifelong friendship. "There's the chance, anyway," said Jefferson. "He may not have been missed, and--hello what's the game now? They've stopped the motors."