the missionary
ladies had said to a buxom chorus-girl who tripped out to the fancy
dress cricket-match in her pink tights and a ballet skirt, when the
ting-a-ling of a bell brought the captain to the radio-room voice-pipe.
"Message just received," I heard him repeat. "All right. Send it up." He
slapped down the voice-pipe cover, and a messenger had handed him the
signal before he had paced twice across the bridge.

"_Marmora_ just sunk," he read; "survivors picked up by P.B.'s _X_ and
_Y_."

The sinking made no immediate change in our plans. There was still a
chance we might be of use with the survivors, and also the matter of the
U-boat to be looked after. With no abatement of speed, all three
destroyers drove on. The navigating officer reckoned that in another
fifteen minutes we should be sighting the rescuing craft, and probably
wreckage; but when twice that time still left a clear horizon ahead, it
began to appear as though there had been a mistake of some kind. And so
there had, but it was a lucky mistake for us. It was some time later
before they figured just how it had chanced, but what had happened was
this. The _Marmora's_ last despairing call--doubtless sent out by a
breaking-down radio--gave her position as some ten or twelve miles out
from what it really was. The consequence was that, heading somewhat wide
of the sinking ship, to which, however, on account of the presence of
the patrol boats, which had evidently been close enough to come to her
immediate assistance, we could have been of small use, we had steered
directly for the one point where it was most desirable we should make
our appearance at that psychological moment: for the point, in short, at
which the coolly calculative skipper of the U-boat responsible for the
outrage, after running submerged for an hour or more and doubtless
figuring he had come sufficiently far from the madding crowd that would
throng the immediate vicinity of the wreckage to be at peace, had come
up to smoke his evening pipe and cogitate upon the Freedom of the Seas.

It was just as it began to become apparent that we were badly adrift as
regards the point where the _Marmora_ had gone down that a whine from
the lookout's voice-pipe reported to the bridge that it had sighted a
"sail--port, ten."

"What is it?" asked back the captain.

"Looks like subm'rine," came the reply; and with one quick movement the
captain had started the alarm-bell sounding "General quarters!" in