“No, a motoring friend has been giving me a hand. I am skipper and he engineer. We hug the coast, you know, and don’t go out if it is blowing.”
As he spoke he pulled round the stern of the launch upon which Cheyne observed the words “Enid, Devonport.” At the same time a tall, well-built figure appeared and waved his hand. Lamson brought the dinghy up to the tiny steps and a moment later they were on deck.
“Mr. Cheyne has come out to see the great invention, Tom. I almost hope that he is interested. My friend, Tom Lewisham, Mr. Cheyne.”
The two men shook hands.
“Lamson thinks he is going to make his fortune with this thing, Mr. Cheyne,” the big man remarked, smiling. “We must see that there is no mistake about our percentages.”
“If you want a percentage you must work for it, my son,” Lamson declared. “Mr. Cheyne must be back by six, so get your old rattletrap going and we’ll run down to the sea. If you don’t mind, Mr. Cheyne, we’ll get under way before I show you the machine, as it takes both of us to get started.”
“Right-o,” said Cheyne. “I’ll bear a hand if there’s anything I can do.”
“Well, that’s good of you. It would be a help if you would take the tiller while I’m making all snug. There’s a bit of a tumble on outside.”
The boat was certainly a flier. The charmingly situated old town dropped rapidly astern while Lamson “made snug.” Then he came aft, shouted down through the engine room skylight for his friend, and when the latter appeared told him to take the tiller.
“Now, Mr. Cheyne,” he went on, “now comes the great moment! I have not fixed the apparatus up here in front of the tiller, partly to keep it secret and partly to save the trouble of making it weatherproof. It’s down in the cabin. But you understand it should be up here. Will you come down?”