No greater hum of business could have been found all Britain over than in this seaport town. Jackies hurried to and fro with orders. Marines marched in companies to the wharves. Officers in service dress scurried by in motor cars. Tommies for once moved swiftly, without even a sidelong glance at the red-cheeked nurses in the Park. Everything gave the impression of activity, of preparation pushed to the last degree of haste. Whatever the prospects of war might be, Portsmouth was as busy as if war were on.
Though we reached Portsmouth at noon, it was more than two o’clock before we could secure rooms. Every hotel was crowded. Scarcely could we get a word from the busy clerks, and at last we were driven to lodgings. Throwing ourselves on the mercy of a cabman we wandered up and down, thoroughly thankful when we obtained some clean, decent rooms in a little house in the Portsea region.
Somewhat to our surprise, our quest proved difficult. We drove to the dockyard. “No admittance without special orders from the admiralty,” stared us in the face,—an order made yet more effective by the gruff silence of the sentinels. We tried the harbor authorities and the Town Hall. Both had been turned into governmental bureaus, and both refused admittance on any terms. Vainly I pleaded my connection with the press. That move only increased the suspicious reserve which surrounded us. Vainly we tried the soothing effect of the golden sovereign. We were rebuffed at every turn, till forced to temporary inaction, we gloomily turned back towards our lodgings.
“There’s nothing doing so far as the authorities are concerned,” remarked Tom, as we walked along. “We’ve got to try some other tack. If we could only find somebody here in town who wasn’t an official, and yet who would know where either of those ships stood. None of the dealers in ships’ stores would know, because the German boats would have received their stores at the wharf. By Jove, though, here’s an idea.” He brightened up. “If, by any lucky chance, they took on fuel here, we might get some light on the place from the coal man. Here’s a chemist’s shop, let’s look up a directory.”
We entered, and ran rapidly over the names of dealers in the business directory that was handed us. Dealer after dealer, whose name appeared therein, sold goods that belong with the sea. Ship chandlery, plumbing for yachts and vessels, calkers, sailmakers. Ah, here it was! Fuel supplied to vessels. There were some fifteen names on the list. I copied them off, and turned to the young man behind the counter. “Which of this list,” I asked, “would be entirely capable of coaling a large merchantman immediately?” The clerk ran his eye down the list. “This, and this, and this firm,” he answered briefly, pointing at three.
The office before which we finally stopped looked peculiarly businesslike as we reconnoitred through its broad window. “Looks just like home,” murmured Tom, as we gazed at the smart young man in dapper tweeds dictating to a stenographer whose pompadour, though like a single tree in a forest had it been on lower Broadway, yet seemed a rare exotic in this English seaport town. The Remington machine at one side, the brightness of the office furniture, the whole atmosphere, in short, was a stage picture, a sudden revival of the world we had left less than a week ago.
“He is,” exclaimed Tom, without the slightest apparent connection. “See that life insurance calendar on the wall!”
A flaming, big-lettered, American calendar appeared at the end of his pointing finger.
“May as well play it boldly, anyway,” murmured Tom, pushing open the door. “Pardon me,” he said, as he entered. “We’re Americans, and want to know something about coal.”