We patched up Dickson max. as well as we could—the cut was not deep—and then my brother took him into Lockhart's room. What he said to the lad I did not know, even now I do not know, but they came back with the boy's eyes sparkling. He walked like a man—in those ten minutes something had transformed him from a laughing schoolboy into a different being. We took him at once to the Morstone Arms, and there my brother spent a long time with Sam Wordingham and his wife. They were as true as steel, this worthy couple. They were not told everything, but it was explained to them that this was "Government business" of the highest importance, and that in the King's name they must aid Bernard in every possible way.
It did me good to see Sam's nut-brown face hardening into resolve, and the excitement in his eyes. Dickson was put to bed in an attic of the rambling old inn and the door was locked.
Before it was light that morning my brother stole out, walked five miles in the opposite direction to Blankington-on-Sea, caught the fish train from a village in the neighbourhood of Cromer, and was in London at the Admiralty by mid-day. He returned in a fast motor car that night. The car was housed in the garage of the Lieutenant of Coastguards at Cockthorpe, four miles away. It was to be ready for any emergency, and by eleven o'clock my brother was back at the Morstone Arms.
On the morning of that day, I indeed went to Norwich on my snorter. She seemed to rise to the occasion, for she did the forty miles to Norwich in two hours and without any mishap. I interviewed the Rev. Harold Dickson and swore him to secrecy, and I never saw a parson more delighted. His sons were true chips of the old block, and after lunch at the "Maiden's Head" the clergyman almost cursed his age and cloth that he was not also available for the service of his country.
Finally, and this provision of my brother was extraordinarily wise, as it afterwards appeared—though he could have had no idea of what we were to discover at that moment—three of the crew of his own submarine, all recovering from wounds, but all taught and handy men, were, even now, upon their way from Harwich to lodge unobtrusively at the coastguard station at Cockthorpe, where they could await Bernard's orders.
I went through the Sea Wood, towards the inn. This was a place that had been planted to shelter the cultivated fields behind from the keen marsh winds. As one advanced into it from the coast side, the furze, among which innumerable rabbits played, gave way to elders and other hardy shrubs. It was about a quarter of a mile long and not more than two hundred yards in breadth. The timber was all stunted and bushy, the undergrowth was rank and thick. The trees led a life of conflict; they were accustomed to swing there all night long in fierce winter tempests; it was a remote and savage place, where even the pheasants of Lord Blankington hardly ever came.
I pressed through the narrow path until I came to a little open space, a cup or hollow through which a sluggish stream wound its way on to the marsh. Here, the bushes were thicker than ever and the stream widened into a pool covered with innumerable water-hen that made cheeping noises in the night. It was covered with them as I came up noiselessly; one could see the little black dots upon the livid, leaden expanse.
I sat down, looked at my watch—I had a fowlers' watch with what is called the "radium dial" that showed the time in any darkness—and found it was just half-past nine. Waiting till a gust of wind had died away, I whistled the first three bars of "It's a long way to Tipperary." There was no response and I whistled again. The last note had hardly shivered away when I felt a hand upon my shoulder and I jumped like a shot man.
"It's only me, sir," sounded in my ear with a triumphant chuckle; "I stalked you pretty well, didn't I, sir?"
"You young devil!" I replied, "you nearly frightened me out of my life!"