“What’s he doing here?” I asked.
They answered that he was often up and down the coast, work on the wreck being impossible in rough weather. They supposed he was bringing cargo in his galliot from Wilhelmshaven, all the company’s plant and stores coming from that port. He was a local man from Aurich; an ex-tug skipper.
We discussed this information while walking out over the sands to see the channel at low water.
“Did you hear anything about this in September?” I asked.
“Not a word. I didn’t go to Juist. I would have, probably, if I hadn’t met Dollmann.”
What in the world did it mean? How did it affect our plans?
“Look at his boots if we pass him,” was all Davies had to suggest.
The channel was now a ditch, with a trickle in it, running north by east, roughly, and edged by a dyke of withies for the first quarter of a mile. It was still blowing fresh from the north-east, and we saw that exit was impossible in such a wind.
So back to the village, a paltry, bleak little place. We passed friend Grimm on the bridge; a dark, clean-shaved, saturnine man, wearing shoes. Approaching the inn:
“We haven’t settled quite enough, have we?” said Davies. “What about our future plans?”