"But——"
"There you go again," interrupted Trevorrick tolerantly. "Carry on, then. Trot out your objections. We'll argue all along the line as we go. What were you about to remark?"
"We'll assume that you've bamboozled the Admiralty Nosey Parker, whose business it is to bind us to our contract," said Pengelly. "You've got the submarine fit, more or less, for sea. You'd have to take her down the Fal on the surface. There's not enough water to submerge. Day or night, you'd be spotted; and there'd be questions asked."
"Pengelly, your Christian name ought to be Thomas, not Paul," remarked Trevorrick, in a bantering tone. He could afford to try to be facetious. He knew enough of his partner by this time to realise that the greater the objections the latter raised, the more chance he, Trevorrick, had of gaining his case—as he almost invariably did. "I'm going to take her out of Falmouth as a surface ship. I'd defy any one to think her to be otherwise than an old tramp without they actually came on board, which I don't intend that they should. We've got the materials. In a couple of months we'll build up a superstructure, rig dummy masts and funnels, and there you are. What have you to say against that?"
"Top-hamper," declared Pengelly bluntly. What do you propose doing when she dives? Ditch the lot? If you don't, she'll roll over when she's submerged. And what speed do you expect you'll get when running beneath the surface, assuming she doesn't turn turtle?"
"Top-hamper judiciously constructed will make no difference to her stability when submerged," replied the other. "All that requires to be done is to see that the superstructure, taken as a whole, weighs the same as the quantity of water it displaces—fairly simple matter if we make use of air-tight tanks and compartments packed with cork. Speed under the surface doesn't count for much in our case. Storage batteries are a nuisance at the best of times. No, I mean to submerge and rest on the bottom in the event of an attack. She's built to withstand, with an ample margin of safety, a depth of twenty-five fathoms."
"Armament—guns and torpedoes—then," resumed Pengelly. "That's going to knock you. Torpedoes don't grow on blackberry bushes, and you can't go trotting about with a six-inch quick-firer under your arm. Supposing Elswicks or Vickers did accept your order for a quick-firer, you'd have the police knocking you up to know what your little game is."
"Torpedoes are out of the question, I'm afraid," admitted Trevorrick. His fellow-partner grinned with satisfaction. It was one of those rare occasions when he scored a point with his objections. "It's a pity; they might have come in handy, especially as they've left the tubes in the ship. Nothing like a tinfish' to settle an argument. Guns—no difficulty there. I can buy a 15.2 centimetre quick-firer of the latest pattern—that's practically six-inch—at Liége and get it delivered afloat outside Dutch or Belgian territorial waters for a mere song, with as much ammunition as we're likely to want. You see, I've made inquiries all along the line already. Next item: Crew. I'll skip that for the present; but, let me tell you, there was method in my madness when I was so mighty particular in the choice of the hands here. Maintenance—that's easily disposed of. We'll help ourselves, supplementing our store with purchases from the shore. Now, Cruising Limits. No need to go very far from home. West Coast of Europe between Finisterre and Bergen offers enough scope for our little stunt; but it's in the Channel that I hope to play Cain. No, don't get alarmed, Pengelly. I'm not out for British shipping unless I'm forced. Hoist German colours and capture a French vessel; collar a German and tell him we're a Frenchman. Spin a yarn to a Dutchman while you're going through his pockets. Bless my soul, man, we'll have our fifty thousand apiece in no time. That brings me to the last item: Communication with the shore. We'll have to lay by for a rainy day, Pengelly—show a clean pair of heels before it's too late. We'll have to travel light. Can't carry a pantechnicon of booty with us. We must arrange to have it sent ashore and transferred to a trustworthy agent in South America. I know of at least half a dozen."
"How about the crew?" asked Pengelly. "We can't show up at some port with thirty fellows tacked on to us."
"No need," replied Trevorrick with a grin. "We're not sentimentalists, nor philanthropists."