“Because he is a spy.”
Whistler digested that idea slowly. It looked reasonable. He knew that it was said sometimes the bombing machines dropped spies on British soil.
“We’d better be careful, then,” he said at last. “The chap may be armed.”
“No ‘maybe’ about it. He’s sure to be,” Belding said vigorously. “We’d look nice getting shot ashore here by a Heinie. What would our folks say?”
“By the way, George,” Whistler Morgan said, “how are your folks? Do you hear from them? When did you come across the pond?”
“One at a time!” exclaimed Belding. “Lil writes me—you remember my sister, Lilian? She was all legs and lanky yellow hair when we were up there in Seacove that summer.”
“I remember her,” Whistler admitted. “She’s a pretty girl.”
“Huh! Think so? She isn’t a patch on your sister, Alice, for looks. And that reminds me—have you heard the news?”
“I’ve not heard much news from home lately, if that is what you mean,” said Whistler. “Guess my mail’s been delayed.”
“Why, say! let me tell you about it. First of all, I came across two months ago and have been on father’s yacht, the Sirius—sub. chaser, you know. Course it isn’t called the Sirius any more. He let the Navy Department have it, you know.”