"I've run," he declared. "Couldn't stick it any longer."
"Eh?" The old woman eyed him sharply. "What's wrong now?"
"Mother" Taggach, the occupier of the cottage, was a shrivelled-up woman of seventy. She was an illicit distiller of whisky and a receiver of stolen property. The former occupation she plied in this remote cottage; the latter was carried on in a small shop in the outskirts of Edinburgh, where her son kept a marine store. Her minor activities consisted in assisting naval and military deserters, although since the war there was little call for her assistance in that direction. The few "bad hats" of the fleet at Auldhaig soon found out that at Mother Taggach's there were facilities for spending leave with the possibilities of obtaining spirits which, owing to the stringent regulations, were denied them in the town.
Stoker Jorkler was one of her patrons, but Mother Taggach, in spite of her failings, was a strong anti-German. Not for one moment did she suspect the true character of the spy.
"Yes," he continued in answer to her questions. "I've run—deserted. Nerves all gone."
"A pretty sailor you make," remarked the old woman witheringly. "So you want me to fix you up? It's very risky, you know."
"Very," agreed Oberfurst. "But if I'm nabbed I won't peach. Let's have a suit of civilian togs and before morning I'll be miles away."
"Five pounds, then," demanded Mother Taggach.
The spy produced the money. The old woman carefully counted and examined the notes, then from a wooden box she drew a bundle of clothes.
"There you are," she said. "Get along upstairs. You'd best be clear of my house in less than ten minutes."