"Guess I knows my job, all right," chuckled Porthoustoc.
"Good!" ejaculated Pengelly. "If there's much of a lop on outside you'd best run up the West Scheldt. You'll find your cargo waiting for you off Neuzen. Know it?"
"Find my way in blindfold," declared Silas. "I'd like to have a quid for every lil' keg I've brought out o' they parts. The Fairy'll be on the spot to time, blow high, blow low, maaster."
Having secured an ally, although Silas Porthoustoc was in ignorance of the real project of his employer, Pengelly returned to Polkyll Creek and reported progress.
"We'll slip our moorings on Saturday," declared Trevorrick. "She's practically ready. We took in the last few tons of oil this morning. Men are full of beans and slogging in like buck niggers. Pengelly, old son, it's going to be simply IT and no mistake."
In this optimistic state of mind, Trevorrick perched himself on the edge of a desk and lit a cigarette. From where he sat he could command two views: one over the creek on which the Alerte rode sedately at her moorings; the other along the narrow drive leading to the one and only entrance to the works from the landward side. Half-way down the drive lay a lorry laden with broken metal. It had been there for the last month—by design—to prevent would-be dealers and other callers from driving straight up to the office.
Suddenly Trevorrick rapped out an oath.
Pengelly started to his feet; not because his partner was not addicted to strong language, but because the vehemence of the other's spontaneous delivery, following a phrase of self-satisfaction, warned him that something unusual had occurred.
"That fool!" hissed Trevorrick.
Pengelly hurried to the window. A car had stopped by the obstructing lorry, and from it walked a man whom Pengelly instantly recognised as Chamfer.