at my side. She looked up into my face with a rueful expression.
"They seem bent on our destruction," she said, "and it looks like
the same boat that sunk us yesterday."

"It is," I replied. "I know her well. I helped design her and
took her out on her first run."

The girl drew back from me with a little exclamation of surprise
and disappointment. "I thought you were an American," she said.
"I had no idea you were a--a--"

"Nor am I," I replied. "Americans have been building submarines
for all nations for many years. I wish, though, that we had gone
bankrupt, my father and I, before ever we turned out that
Frankenstein of a thing."

We were approaching the U-boat at half speed now, and I could
almost distinguish the features of the men upon her deck.
A sailor stepped to my side and slipped something hard and cold
into my hand. I did not have to look at it to know that it was
a heavy pistol. "Tyke 'er an' use 'er," was all he said.

Our bow was pointed straight toward the U-boat now as I heard
word passed to the engine for full speed ahead. I instantly
grasped the brazen effrontery of the plucky English skipper--he
was going to ram five hundreds tons of U-boat in the face of her
trained gun. I could scarce repress a cheer. At first the
boches didn't seem to grasp his intention. Evidently they
thought they were witnessing an exhibition of poor seamanship,
and they yelled their warnings to the tug to reduce speed and