was pretty well drowned, of course, but he hung on, choking and
spitting, and held his breath, and got in shots where he could. This
Zepp was strafing bombs about for all she was worth, and--who was
it?--Macartney, I think, potting at her between dives; and naturally
all hands wanted to look at the performance, so about half the North
Sea flopped down below and--oh, they had a Charlie Chaplin time of it!
Well, somehow, Macartney managed to rip the Zepp a bit, and she went
to leeward with a list on her. We saw her a fortnight later with a
patch on her port side. Oh, if Fritz only fought clean, this wouldn't
be half a bad show. But Fritz can't fight clean."

"And _we_ can't do what he does--even if we were allowed to," one
said.

"No, we can't. 'Tisn't done. We have to fish Fritz out of the water,
dry him, and give him cocktails, and send him to Donnington Hall."

"And what does Fritz do?" I asked.

"He sputters and clicks and bows. He has all the correct motions, you
know; but, of course, when he's your prisoner you can't tell him what
he really is."

"And do you suppose Fritz understands any of it?" I went on.

"No. Or he wouldn't have lusitaniaed. This war was his first chance of
making his name, and he chucked it all away for the sake of showin'
off as a foul Gottstrafer."

And they talked of that hour of the night when submarines come to the