THE PRELIMINARY CALM.
By Blinton X. Krapt.
The streets of Cowes are bathed in sunlight. Smart yachtsmen, accompanied by daintily dressed ladies, walk hither and thither. The shopkeepers chat pleasantly. The burly policeman drowsily pursues his way. Children shout happily. Surely here is peace, says the unsuspecting visitor.
A brown-faced man with a light beard and a heavy tread approached us. “It is all right,” said my companion to him; “this gentleman is a friend.” Then, lowering his voice, he added: “He came over last night.” “Beautiful place, Cowes, isn’t it?” said the bronzed man. I noticed that his hip pocket bulged. Yet none would have suspected that his conversation was not of a perfectly ordinary character.
Entering the most sumptuous hotel in Cowes we had lunch. There was nothing sinister about the place except that the waiters were German. But I noted signs of understanding between them and my friend. “I have been here before,” he explained, with a quick glance about him.
So life goes on from day to day. We are waiting, waiting. The little boot-maker in his shop is waiting. The tailor is waiting. The hotel staffs are waiting. The passengers on the railway platforms are waiting. On the surface life is gay and free from care; but what I may have to tell you when it comes round to my turn to write again, who can say?