"Four shillings and twopence, please, sir," said the official in charge of the office. "Passenger train—special rate. And please sign here."
The Scout Master signed the buff form, paid the four shillings and twopence, and took possession of the box. Failing to find any porters, he manhandled the bulky article himself, but, by the time he deposited it in the stern-sheets of the dinghy, the perspiration was pouring down his face.
All the while he was racking his brains to think who could have sent the box. It had been dispatched from Paddington, but there was no indication on the label as to the consignor.
"Gear from head-quarters, that's what it is!" exclaimed Mr. Graham. "Wonder I hadn't thought of that before, but how came they to know I am at Dartmouth—I'll give that part up."
It had been a fairly difficult single-handed job to transfer the box from the stationary pontoon to the lively little dinghy. The difficulty was increased ten fold when it came to transhipping the "gear" from the dinghy to the higher level of the gently rocking yacht.
At length, with the assistance of the throat halliards, the Scoutmaster succeeded in getting the heavy box on to the waterways. Then he dragged it aft, and toppled it carefully into the cockpit; but in spite of his caution, he contrived to bark the knuckles of his left hand.
The box was corded, every knot—"grannies" most of them—was smothered with sealing wax. Mr. Graham was too good a seaman to spoil a sound piece of rope by cutting it. Deliberately he undid the knots and did the rope up into a neat coil.
The next step was to prise open the lid. It was nailed down, with a French nail at every two inches all the way round. By the aid of an axe, a screw-driver, and a hammer, Mr. Graham removed the lid, although in the attempt he split the wood into five or six pieces.
Full of pleasurable anticipation following his strenuous endeavours, Mr. Graham tore aside the canvas wrappings. Then he broke into a cold sweat, for the box was crammed with theatrical effects—wigs, eighteenth century costumes, partly used grease paints, and a pile of old posters in which the name—Wilfred Graham, Acting Manager—appeared conspicuously.
Evidently the gear belonged to a touring company billed to appear for a two night's performance at Dartmouth, and the Scoutmaster pictured the most unholy row that the actors would kick up when they found that their "props" were not forthcoming.