"Dunno, miss; that is, unless she's been bamboozled by the fog and is coming in to make sure of her position. Maybe the coast appears a bit hazy from where she is. There, I thought so; she's porting her helm. She's off up-Channel."
As he spoke, the tramp hoisted her colours over a red and white pennant—signifying that she wished to communicate with the signal station. Slowing down, she exchanged signals for nearly a quarter of an hour, then proceeded with increased speed in an easterly direction.
"Quite a lot of signalling," remarked Doris.
"Yes, miss," agreed the man. "More'n usual. P'raps she's been chased by a German submarine, though there don't look much wrong with her. You'm curious, miss?"
"A little," admitted the girl. "At these times messages from passing ships may mean a lot."
"True, miss, true," agreed the coastguard as he prepared to resume his way. "I'll enquire, miss, an' if it ain't confidential, I'll nip back and tell 'ee."
The girl sat down again, and, almost unconsciously patting the dog, kept her eyes directed seawards. She had almost forgotten the coastguard's promise when she became aware that he was returning swiftly.
"Miss," he exclaimed excitedly, "'tes good news. Yon vessel is the 'Merope.' She's got on board a hundred an' eleven officers and men from the 'Heracles.' She's landing 'em at Dartmouth."
"Any names?" asked the girl.
"No, miss."