CHAPTER I
Rocks Ahead
"And how do you like being out of harness, old top?" inquired Jack Villiers.
The "old top", otherwise Bobby Beverley, late Sub-Lieutenant of the Motor Boat Reserve, squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of a well-worn salt-stained monkey-jacket.
"Candidly, dear old thing, I don't like it one little bit," he replied. "A fish out of water isn't in it."
"I believe that's an undisputed fact," interrupted the other.
"And I jolly well begin to realize it," continued Beverley with conviction. "There are thousands in the same boat, but that doesn't alter my position. Fact remains, I see rocks ahead."
"Is that so?" inquired Villiers seriously. "What is it? Short of the ready?"
Beverley shook his head.
"Not that," he replied, with the confidence that a Service man will display when discussing financial matters with a brother-officer. "I've been careful, after a fashion, and there's my gratuity, and a bit of prize-money when that comes along. Enough to carry on with for a bit; but, hang it all, what's a fellow to do? I don't like the idea of taking on a job in an office. When you've been in charge of a crew for the last three years, you don't like knuckling under and being bossed; you know what I mean."
"Precisely, old bird," agreed Villiers. "Same here. I'd go off to Rhodesia like a shot, only I don't know a blessed thing about farming. I'd go to sea again, but the Mercantile Marine is chock-a-block with demobbed Royal Naval Reserve men with Board of Trade certificates and deep-sea experience. That's where we're bunkered, old boy. But never mind. Something'll turn up. It's a case of grasping Dame Fortune by the forelock, whatever that is. 'Fraid the only forelock I'm acquainted with is the forelock of an anchor, and that's apt to let you down badly if you don't watch it."
The two chums had encountered each other just outside the docks at Southampton. Both had recently been demobilized from the parent ship Hermione, Villiers' "M.L." having been paid off a fortnight before Beverley's craft had gone to lay up indefinitely in the Hamble River.
Jack Villiers was a tall, sparely-built fellow, bronzed, athletic, and moving with a typically nautical roll that one is bound to acquire by three years' acquaintance with the open sea. The only son of a formerly well-to-do Devonshire man, Jack found himself "out of a berth" with precious few prospects of obtaining employment of anything approaching a congenial nature. He had gone straight from a public school into the R.N.V.R and for three years he had risked his life for his country and had had enough experiences of warfare afloat to last a lifetime. He knew how to handle men, to take over responsibility in a tight corner, and generally to steel his nerves and act promptly in emergencies. He had a roof over his head, albeit the enamelled roof of the M.L.'s ward-room; good and ample food, a genial superior officer, and a crew with whom he was undoubtedly popular. His salary was sufficient for his needs, although it compared unfavourably with the wages of the average munition-worker ashore, and generally speaking he had, to quote his own words, "a top-hole time".
But at the end of the three years it was quite another story. The prospect of completing his education at a university had vanished. His second string—a course at an Engineering Training College—had snapped, His father, hard hit by the war, was no longer in a position to render financial aid, and it became apparent that Jack Villiers would have to cut out a line for himself.
The burning question was how? The prospect of a commercial life appalled him. His utter inexperience of the world was against him, and it was doubtful whether, during that period of unrest that almost invariably besets the demobilized man, he could settle to sedentary work. The call of the sea, the craving for spirited and healthy adventure, militated against the prospect of a hum-drum life.
Bobby Beverley was in much the same state—possibly worse. He was additionally hampered by having to provide for his fifteen-year-old brother Dick, who was at present a boarder in a well-known school near Salisbury. Bobby's parents were both dead. Mr. Beverley, taking up a commission in the Army Service Corps, at the age of forty, had been killed in action somewhere in France. His widow survived him by but a few months, while Dick had to be maintained out of a scanty "compassionate allowance ", largely augmented by a considerable portion of his elder brother's Sub-Lieutenant's pay. And now Bobby Beverley was faced with two problems: his own future and that of Dick when the latter left school, which would be at no distant date.
"Let's trot along and have lunch," suggested Villiers. "I know of a decent little show in the High Street. Dash it all! I remembered in time," he added, as he replaced his cap after saluting a lady. "Only just beginning to remember I'm in mufti. Passed Barry's missus this morning, and, by Jove! I was going to salute Navy fashion when I recollected I was out of it. Good old times those, George."
"They were," admitted "George" fervently, accepting without demur the name that for some unaccountable reason is indiscriminately bestowed upon members of the Senior Service. "We had our sticky times, of course. Then we groused like the rest of 'em. But that's a back number. Looking at it retrospectively, it wasn't a bad sort of stunt. And now there's the future."
"There won't be one for you on this old planet if you aren't more careful," interrupted Villiers, as he gripped his chum by the arm and hiked him on to the pavement just in time to escape being run down by a motor-cyclist. "Bless my soul! It's Alec Claverhouse; and on a brand-new 1919 jigger, too."
The recognition was mutual, for the motor-cyclist slowed down and came to a standstill with one foot on the kerb within twenty yards of the spot where he had all but collided with Bobby Beverley.
From what could be seen of him Alec Claverhouse appeared to be a tall, burly fellow. Tall he certainly was, but the burliness was largely deceptive, since he was wearing thick clothing and heavy motor mackintosh overalls. His forehead was concealed by a golf-cap pulled well down, while resting upon the peak were a pair of goggles that were evidently considered by their owner to be necessary adjuncts to the "doggy" appearance of a "speed merchant".
Claverhouse was an ex-lieutenant of the Royal Air Force—or Flying-Officer according to the revised and much criticized style of rank. He had been demobilized for more than five months, and after a long and wearisome search for a job had taken up a not too lucrative post at a motor-engineering works, part of his duty being to risk his neck and those of others of His Majesty's lieges by testing cars and motor-cycles on the King's highway. Up to the present he had been fairly fortunate in having his licence endorsed but twice, although it was a wonder that the fatal third endorsement had not been recorded. Like a good many other air-pilots Claverhouse, used to travelling at 120 miles an hour, found that a paltry twenty over the ground was a mere crawl.
"Cheerio, Beverley, old bird!" he exclaimed boisterously. "Hardly expected to run up against you. Still in it, I see. And, Villiers, you dear old thing! so they've chucked you out."
"Both of us," corrected Beverley. "We were discussing the prospects of hacking our way to fame and prosperity when you nearly settled the problem for us."
"Always ready to be of assistance," rejoined Claverhouse. "By the by, seen any of the old Abermurchan crowd lately?"
"Not since last July," replied Beverley. "Villiers and I came south together when the M.L. base packed up. The Air Station was due to close down almost immediately, I remember. What are you doing here?"
"Trying to find my feet," was the reply. "In other words, pottering about in a glorified garage waiting for a snip. I'm thinking of going abroad."
"That's about as far as we've got," said Villiers.
"But at present we're thinking of having lunch. Come along with us."
"My 'bus," protested Alec.
"Shove it round the back of the show," suggested Villiers. "Get on with it and then you can reserve a table. We'll be there in less than five minutes."
Claverhouse fell in with the suggestion and rode off. Arriving at the restaurant he was fortunate in securing a corner table. Five minutes passed, but there were no signs of Villiers and Beverley. Ten minutes passed.
"Wonder if they're acting the giddy goat with me?" he soliloquized as he carelessly picked up a copy of The Times and began to scan the Personal Column.
Why he did so he hardly knew. There was little of interest to him in the long list of appeals for work by demobilized men, though it roused his sympathy. Somehow it didn't seem right that fellows who had fought for the country should have to eat out of the hands of the stay-at-homes who for a dead certainty would have had no home had the Hun been top-dog.
Half-way down the column he came across an advertisement of a length and novelty unusual even to the unique Agony Column of The Times. Its audacity held him until he became aware of the arrival of Villiers and Beverley by receiving a vigorous thump on his shoulder.
"Sorry we're late, old son," exclaimed the former apologetically. "Ran across old Hammersley just under the Bargate. You remember him?"
Claverhouse nodded, then put the paper on the table.
"Cast your eye on this, old thing," he said. "A bit tall, eh, what?"
"What, Rio del Oro shares? Thanks, I'm not having any," said Villiers decidedly.
"No, next column," explained Claverhouse. "There, where my thumb is."
"What's the wheeze?" inquired Beverley, craning his neck and looking over Villier's shoulder.
"That's what I want to know," replied Alec. "If there's anything in it, I'm on."
The announcement was as follows:—
"To Demobilized Officers. Those wishing for further excitement and adventure overseas and who are physically and mentally capable of taking care of themselves are invited to communicate with the under-signed. An enterprise involving the risking of two hundred and fifty pounds per head is in contemplation. The capital may be lost; on the other hand, there is a possibility of a gain of one thousand per cent upwards. Applications are especially invited from ex-members of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve, and Royal Air Force, but those persons formerly serving in other branches of H.M. Services will be given consideration. Full particulars of the scheme, which will require twelve months' personal service, will be supplied to bona fide applicants.—Address, 'Joystick', c/o Messrs. Steady and Strong, Richborough Chambers, Southampton."
"Claptrap!" declared Villiers, taking up the menu-card, which represented something rather more concrete, and consequently rather more digestible, than the newspaper announcement.
"P'raps," admitted Claverhouse, with his characteristic drawl. "'Tany rate the bloke's straightforward enough to tell you that you might be chucking your money away."
"That's so," agreed Beverley. "We can investigate. I suppose there's no obligation to carry on if the thing looks fishy."
"I don't mind going that far," said Villiers. "And if it looks a sound scheme I'll plank down three hundred. After all three hundred is only worth about a hundred and eighty pounds, and if we are kept employed for a twelvemonth and get a bit of excitement chucked in, well—we might just as soon spend our gratuities that way as being rooked and rushed at home."
Beverley made no audible comment. He was of a cautious nature, and his cautiousness was heightened by the fact that he was responsible for the maintenance of a young brother for at least a couple of years.
While the waiter was taking orders the subject was dropped, but as soon as the man had departed Claverhouse returned to the matter.
"Wonder if it's a filibustering stunt?" he hazarded.
"Or piracy," added Villiers. "I heard a yarn floating around only yesterday about a merchant skipper whose crew were killed in cold blood by a U-boat. The old man was taken prisoner, but managed to escape, and now he's vowed to get his own back. How I don't know, unless he turns pirate and goes for every Fritz he falls in with on the high seas."
"Thanks, I'm not having any there," declared Beverley. "I don't want to find myself hanging in the modern equivalent to Execution Dock."
"Nor I," added Villiers. "Apparently this stunt has something to do with the sea, since it's R.N.V.R. fellows who are wanted."
"And Air Force blokes," said Claverhouse gently.
"Nothing like sticking up for your own crush, old bird," remarked Villiers. "Yes, that part puzzles me a bit. Look here, let's take Beverley's advice and make inquiries. If it isn't all jonnick we can pipe down."
"When?" asked Claverhouse. "Now? At once?"
Villiers laughed.
"Hardly," he replied. "Pretty guys we'd look trotting round to Richborough Chambers and asking for 'Joystick'. It's too much like asking for trouble to my mind. No, the best thing we can do without compromising ourselves is to write and ask for an interview. Then we can resolve ourselves into a Committee of Ways and Means."
"Joint letter?" asked Beverley.
"No, individual, briefly stating our qualifications," replied Villiers.
"But, in that case, you or I might be sent for and the others ignored," objected Claverhouse. "I vote we stick together—united we stand sort of touch."
"That's the stuff to give 'em," was Villiers' rejoinder.