"Spell-oh! Down tools, lads. Why, you have made a show. You'll find some cleaning stuff in that tin. I'll take you to the bathroom in the house."
"'Fraid we're in a jolly pickle," said Athol apologetically.
"I'm used to that," rejoined the stranger, as he led the way to a substantially-built stone-house standing in an open space between the pine-trees. "If you like to take off your boots—they look pretty saturated—I'll lend you some slippers."
Having washed, the lads were ushered into a long dining-room. The table was laid with covers for three. An old manservant, who might have been a brother to the gatekeeper, waited until the diners' wants had been attended to; then having thrown a couple of logs upon the already briskly glowing fire, he went out.
"Now to business," exclaimed their host. "First let me introduce myself. My name is Desmond Blake. My age—an important consideration in these strenuous days—is forty-two; my profession, an engineer who has been cold-shouldered by a—but that can wait. Now, tell me, what are your names? And what brings you in these parts?"
CHAPTER III
THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
"It's a long story," began Athol, having first given their questioner their names. "We don't want to bore you, Mr. Blake."
"Not at all," the host hastened to assert. "I am all attention."