He was all for precaution, however, and his intuition was nothing short of marvelous.
When "Dr. Blitz" and his "sons" went ashore it was the foggiest kind of a Christmas morning.
A stalwart marine attempted to put the doctor through the question paces, but the real Roque whispered a fierce something into the ear of the would-be questioner that set the latter back-tracking in a jiffy.
It was a curious and remarkable fact, but true, that an hour after the eminent secret agent and his young charges had landed in Cuxhaven, Billy's prediction, "that wherever Roque is there's something doing," was verified. Every submarine cable connecting the fortresses of this coast sounded alarm, particularly high-keyed the frantic signal from Helgoland, the fortress island, thirty-nine miles away.
Roque dropped his doctor character like a hot potato when he learned the import of the flashes. He tossed his traveling case of surgical instruments into the first open doorway he passed, and the boys were compelled to run to keep up with his long stride.
Bombs were falling from aloft, exploding among the shipping behind them, while in front one of the projectiles crashed upon a huge gas tank.
"The nerve of the devil mapped this out!"
The bitter emphasis of Roque indicated that he laid the blame of this unexpected invasion upon one head—that of Ardelle.
In the meantime, the fog-ridden atmosphere was riven by blazes of powder from the shore guns, trained upward, and the air squadron, Zeppelins and naval seaplanes, were leaping skyward to meet their kind in aërial battle.
Roque charged madly into the air station, dragging the boys after him.