Pam and the Countess

by E. E. Cowper

From the bay came a sudden knock of wood on wood, just the noise a person recognizes who understands boats and would never mistake it for anything else.

"Dinghy," thought the Midget, and, without more ado, he slid from his seat and put on some clothes that would not be conspicuous; so careful was he, indeed, that he got out stockings, articles he hated in summer; but bare white legs show in the dark. Presently he was complete. Serge knickers and sweater, blue stockings and sandshoes. Then he opened his door and looked out. No sound, a pitch dark, silent house.

Hughie's mind was intent on the garden door. The big front door was bolted and barred and would make a noise if opened. The back door possessed a terribly stiff key that turned with a shriek. Jeepy would not have it oiled; she would not have it touched for mysterious reasons of her own connected with the possible bad conduct of Patty Ingles! It was a far-fetched idea, but it kept the key rusty, so that was no good. There remained the children's door, as it had always been called, the door into the garden, just beyond Pamela's window. It would not do for her to hear. Hughie wanted to do this business entirely off his own bat, so to speak, and of all things he did not wish to have "people making a row", so he hoped the door would not betray him.

As it happened, poor Pam was sleeping rather heavily. She had had many restless nights, but something in those words of Miss Anne's had made a difference. Things were not so hopelessly unjust; she did not feel so ill-used quite. So she slept soundly, and Hughie, moving like Sherlock Holmes and "Raffles" rolled into one, as only he could, got out of the house without a creak or a scratch, closed the door, and found himself on the end terrace under Pam's window close to the sea-wall.

Every stone being familiar, he went straight from there along the grass border of the walk, guiding himself by the wall. Once he stopped and listened intently, when he heard that little bump again--it was a slightly grinding bump at irregular intervals. Hughie knew now what it was--the dinghy against the rocks. It might mean that the little boat had got loose and was being shifted this way and that by the tide. There was nothing exciting about that, of course, but Hughie was convinced that something more was being enacted--there was human agency at work.

He came to the end of the wall, went through the gate, round, and then down towards the rocks. Now here was necessity for careful going, because of the darkness, and he wished heartily he had stayed to get the little electric torch that stood on the library writing-table. However, knowing the bay by heart made it easier, and every minute his eyes were more used to the dark.

The sand felt cool and hard; there was plenty of it, because the tide was just starting to rise steadily and creep into the pools. Hughie knew this must be so, of course--partly because he understood tides, but particularly in this instance owing to Adrian's plan for the morning.

They were to start early for Salterne, while there was still enough of the tide to take them. It could not have been long since the tide turned; he tried to calculate, and succeeded in realizing that the faint greyness that lay in the night was not "moon", but morning coming. And that was what made a chill, fresher than a night wind.

Presently he found the dinghy, and felt all over her with understanding hands. The sculls were there--rolling a little, improperly placed. She was broadside on to the beach, heaving up a little on the wash.

"She simply never went down by herself," decided Hughie, and thought over the matter deeply.