“A thousand pardons!” said von Brüning, laughing.
“Don’t shake my faith in her,” I put in. “I’ve got to get to England in her.”
“Heaven forbid; I was only thinking that there must have been some sea round the Scharhorn that day; a tame affair, no doubt, Herr Davies?”
“Scharhorn?” said Davies, who did not catch the idiom in the latter sentence. “Oh, we didn’t go that way. We cut through the sands—by the Telte.”
“The Telte! In a north-west gale!” The Commander started, ceased to smile, and only stared. (It was genuine surprise; I could swear it. He had heard nothing of this before.)
“Herr Dollmann knew the way,” said Davies, doggedly. “He kindly offered to pilot me through, and I wouldn’t have gone otherwise.” There was an awkward little pause.
“He led you well, it seems?” said von Brüning.
“Yes; there’s a nasty surf there, though, isn’t there? But it saves six miles—and the Scharhorn. Not that I saved distance. I was fool enough to run aground.”
“Ah!” said the other, with interest.
“It didn’t matter, because I was well inside then. Those sands are difficult at high water. We’ve come back that way, you know.”