And nobody, at that time, had guessed at the part which submarines were to play in war. Civilians, even well-informed men like Gorman, regarded submarines as toys, chiefly dangerous to the crews who manned them. Phillips probably knew how they were propelled. Gorman did not. He had never given a thought to the subject. Like most of the rest of us he associated petrol only with motor-cars or possibly with flying machines. It did not connect itself in his mind with submarines.
“That Emperor!” said Gorman. “I’m hanged if I understand.”
“The Emperor?” said the Queen. “Why should the Emperor be mixed up with it?”
“Why should the Emperor be mixed up with the island?” said Gorman. “Why should the Emperor be mixed up with you? Why should the Emperor be mixed up with anything? I don’t know. I can’t guess. But it was the Emperor who sent the stuff here.”
Phillips was a young man of practical mind, very little given to inquiring into causes and reasons. But he had a thoroughly British respect for the rights of property and the privileges of ownership.
“Anyhow,” he said, “he’s no earthly right to dump his stuff here without asking leave. Salissa isn’t his island.”
From the tap which he had already turned on the petrol was flowing freely. It trickled down among the stones, and some of it had already reached the sea. It was spreading, a smooth, thin film across the water of the cave.
“I vote we run it all off,” he said.
He looked at the Queen and then at Gorman.
“If a man puts his cow on my lawn,” said Gorman, “I suppose I’ve a right to turn it out again.”