"Be careful not to excite suspicion," cautioned Captain Brookes, as she gave a warning blast on her syren. "Ask her to make her number." A reference to the code-book showed that the stranger was the British steamer _Bletchley Hall_. "Done this time!" grunted Sinclair, as the _Olive Branch's_ helm was altered to show her red. Nor was the second venture more successful, the vessel in this case being the _Pluton_, from Zante to Castellamare. Then, in order to economise their precious fuel, the _Olive Branch's_ engines were stopped. As the sun rose, however, a tramp, emitting dense volumes of oil-fed smoke, laboured slowly through the Straits. The practised eye of Captain Brookes regarded her with satisfaction. "If that's not an oil-tank, I'm a Dutchman," he exclaimed. Unsuspectingly the tramp gave her name, port of clearance, and destination, and the nature of her cargo--crude petroleum. Then, to the astonishment of her skipper, the _Olive Branch_ made a peremptory signal for her to heave to. To give the Russian credit he did not immediately accede to this demand. Smoke poured from the tramp's funnels in increasing volumes as she altered her course with the intention of seeking safety in flight. As well might a hedgehog seek to outpace a dog, for, with the last of her fuel the _Olive Branch's_ motors worked up to a speed of thirty knots, while a solid shell, passing twenty yards in front of the tramp's bluff bows, caused her to stop and reverse her engines. "Pipe away the cutter," ordered Captain Brookes. "Mr. Palmer, you will please take charge--you know your orders, I presume?" "Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant. As the cutter ranged alongside the tramp's rusty sides her captain, a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded Slav, began abusing the intruders, cursing them in a medley of all the seafaring epithets of Europe. "Belay there!" exclaimed Palmer. "Don't worry, old fellow! All we want is some oil." "Then you'll haf to want," replied the irate skipper, who spoke English with tolerable fluency. "We mean to pay you a fair rate." "No, no--I will not sell." "Then we must make you." "Pirate, eh?" sneered the Russian. "Me report you, an' you'll go so," making a rapid circle with his thumb and finishing with an upward jerk. "What's the name of your sheep?" "The _Olive Branch_--isn't that good enough for you?" retorted Palmer, beginning to lose his temper. The effect of this announcement was almost magical. The crew of the tramp, mostly fair-haired Finns, disappeared from her bulwarks, while the captain hastened to leave the bridge and lower a rope-ladder over the side. Thirty seconds later Palmer and six of his men were in possession of the Russian vessel, and the cutter was sent back to the cruiser. Then, carefully manoeuvred, the _Olive Branch_ came alongside the tramp and the work of spoliation began.