“No, any weather.” A laugh from von Brüning and some words I could not catch.
“Only one, with half a load.”
“.....meet?”
“At the station.”
“So—how’s the fog?”
This appeared to be really the end. Both men rose and steps came towards the window. I leapt aside as I heard it thrown up, and covered by the noise backed into safety. Von Brüning called “Grimm!” and that, and the open window, decided me that my line of advance was now too dangerous to retreat by. The only alternative was to make a circuit round the bigger of the two buildings—and an interminable circuit it seemed—and all the while I knew my compass-course “south-east” was growing nugatory. I passed a padlocked door, two corners, and faced the void of fog. Out came the compass, and I steadied myself for the sum. “South-east before—I’m farther to the eastward now—east will about do”; and off I went, with an error of four whole points, over tussocks and deep sand. The beach seemed much farther off than I had thought, and I began to get alarmed, puzzled over the compass several times, and finally realised that I had lost my way. I had the sense not to make matters worse by trying to find it again, and, as the lesser of two evils, blew my whistle, softly at first, then louder. The bray of a foghorn sounded right behind me. I whistled again and then ran for my life, the horn sounding at intervals. In three or four minutes I was on the beach and in the dinghy.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A Change of Tactics
We pushed off without a word, and paddled out of sight of the beach. A voice was approaching, hailing us. “Hail back,” whispered Davies; “pretend we’re a galliot.”
“Ho-a,” I shouted, “where am I?”
“Off Memmert,” came back. “Where are you bound?”