"Better than that, my festive," replied the medico, as he deftly filled a tin mug with hot tea--a task not easily accomplished when a destroyer is rolling horribly in a sea-way. "The Hun we fished out is none other than Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert." "Explain," said Alec, as he took the proffered cup and gratefully drained its contents. It mattered nothing that the cup was old and battered, and that the dregs left by the previous user were floating in the highly-brewed beverage. In such circumstances one cannot be too fastidious. "What! Not heard of Count Otto von Brockdorff-Giespert?" asked Browning in mock dismay. "I thought everyone in the destroyer patrol knew of him. He's the fellow who torpedoed the _Bentali_." "_Bentali_? Of course, I remember," replied Seton. "A hospital ship homeward-bound from the Dardanelles. Didn't cotton on to the fellow's tally, though. I'm jolly glad we've collared him. Wonder what they'll do with him?" "Do with him?" echoed the doctor. "Why, put him ashore, send him in a comfy first-class railway carriage to a cushy home for fortunate Hun pirates. Feed him up; let him take a daily jaunt into the nearest town for the benefit of his health and to prevent boredom. Allow his friends to visit him, and all that sort of tosh. My word, we English are a rummy race! We carry our humane principles too far, and Fritz takes it as a sign of weakness." "It's innate chivalry, I suppose," remarked Seton. "Innate foolishness!" corrected Browning with asperity. "If you saw a poisonous snake lying across your path would you pick it up, wrap it in your pocket-handkerchief, and take it out of harm's way? I'd as soon do that as molly-coddle a Hun. I've seen them and their dirty work, my festive, long before you took to the noble pastime of Fritz-strafing." Meanwhile the subject of the discussion was reclining more or less at ease upon a settee in the _Bolero's_ ward-room. A fractured collar-bone, several minor contusions, and a shock to the nervous system summed up the extent of his injuries. The destroyer's surgeon-probationer, notwithstanding his vehement denunciations of von Brockdorff-Giespert and all his kind, had used all his skill in mitigating the pirate's injuries; and now, slightly under the influence of morphia, the Count was pondering over the situation and wondering whether it would have been preferable to have perished with his crew rather than be taken alive by enemies. Von Brockdorff-Giespert believed, and with good reason, that he was on the Black List of the British Admiralty. In the Fatherland he used to boast of the fact, but different surroundings are apt to change a fellow's tune, and now he was beginning to feel truly sorry for himself.