“Don’t tell me!” cried Mr. Greatorex, banging his fist on the paper. “We’re sinking into a state of jelly-fish; any one can poke us and smack us and we simply go in. This’ll smash the Government: that’s one good thing; and we’ll see what John Brooks can do when he’s at the helm.”
Later in the day Raymond Oliphant, who was now a privileged visitor to the shed, adverted to the subject.
“Thank your stars you are not Prime Minister, Dorrell,” he said. “The pater came down for the week-end, and he’s nearly off his chump, poor old chap! He knew about this kidnapping three days ago, before it got into the papers, and he went back to town this morning prepared for squalls in the House.”
“Can’t he do anything?”
“He says not. One of the Opposition rags was screaming about an expedition on Saturday, but of course that can’t be risked. And it might fail after all—just as the Gordon expedition did. That Moorish brigand might kill Ingleton if hard pressed.”
“But what would he gain by that? He’s playing for a ransom, I suppose.”
“No, there’s more in it than that. We’ve already offered an enormous ransom through the Sultan; but the rebel wants to get certain concessions out of the Sultan, and thinks he’ll manage it by getting the Sultan into hot water with us. I say, what a pity your aeroplane isn’t fit for the job. What a grand idea it would be to snap up the prisoner under the very noses of his captors! I suppose it isn’t up to it, eh?”
Tom shook his head.
“I couldn’t trust it to go so far. You see, here the workshop is at hand, and if anything goes wrong it can be easily repaired. It would be rather a poor lookout if the thing came to grief in the Bay of Biscay, say, and I came souse into the sea.”
“It would be rather rotten. Well, let’s have a spin now.”