“They’ve broken away,” he cried.

It was true, The submarine commander and his followers had succeeded in eluding the crew of the Ventura and dashed to the rail.  There they poised themselves a brief moment, and then flung themselves headlong into the sea.  Directly, dripping, they appeared on the deck of the submarine and dashed for the conning tower.

“Quick!” roared Jack.  “Forward turret guns again there!”

Once more the range was calculated and an explosion shook the Essex.  But as before the range had not been true.  The shell barely skimmed the top of the U-Boat and went screaming half a mile past, where it struck the water with a hiss.

Slowly the submarine began to submerge.

“Again!” cried Jack.

But the next shot had no better success.

The submarine disappeared from sight.

Jack stamped his foot.

“What’s the matter with those fellows forward?” he demanded.  “Can’t they shoot?  Didn’t they ever see a gun before?”

There was no reply from the other officers and gradually Jack cooled down.

“Pretty tough,” said Frank then.  “We should have had that fellow.”

Jack nodded gloomily.

“So we should,” he cried, “but we didn’t get him.  Well, better luck next time.  All the same, I’m inclined to believe that Ensign Carruthers needs a talking to.  He didn’t take the time to calculate the range correctly.”

“I’ll speak to him,” said Frank.

“Do,” said Jack.  “In the meantime we’ll run close to the Ventura and I’ll go aboard for a word with her captain.”

The Ventura’s wireless was working again now, and Jack himself took the key.

“Lay to,” he ordered.  “I’m coming aboard you.”

“Very well,” was the reply.

The two vessels drew close together.  Jack had the destroyer’s launch lowered, climbed in and crossed to the Ventura, where a ladder was lowered for him.  On deck he was greeted by a grizzled old sailor, who introduced himself as Captain Griswold.

“Come to my cabin, sir,” he said to Jack.  “We can talk there without being interrupted.”

Jack followed the captain of the Ventura below, and took a seat the latter motioned him to.  The captain set out liquor and cigars, but Jack waved them away.

“I neither smoke nor drink, thanks,” he said.

Captain Griswold shrugged his shoulders and put a match to a cigar.

“Well, what can I do for you, Captain?” he asked.

“First,” said Jack, “did you get the number of the submarine?”

“I did.  The U-87, Commander Frederich, the captain styled himself; and if there ever was a murderer unhung, he’s the man.”

“Why?” asked Jack curiously.

“Because he proposed setting my passengers and crew adrift in small boats, without water or provisions, before sinking my ship.  And when I told him that I had him figured correctly—­that he intended to shell the lifeboats—­the cold-blooded scoundrel admitted it!  That’s why we had the nerve to jump him on deck.  I figured we might as well die on the Ventura as in the lifeboats—­and we had a chance of taking him to Davy Jones’ locker along with us.”