"Then be sharp and whip them on board. Was there any communication for me?"
"A bundle of English newspapers, sir, and this letter."
The man drew the documents from the inside of his jumper and passed them to a seaman, who in turn handed them to the skipper.
"I may have to land, sir," continued the seaman. "The rest of the cans are in a cove at some distance from the landing-place. Can Max go with me to mind the boat? There is a slight ground-swell at times, and she might have a hole through her canvas if she is allowed to grind against the rocks."
Receiving an affirmative reply, the man told his comrade to get on board, and once more the boat vanished into the darkness.
Another twenty minutes elapsed, then came the sounds of muffled footsteps, and of volatile spirit surging inside the petrol cans. Then one of the men must have slipped, for there was a slight scuffling, followed by the loud crash of a can clattering over the rocks.
"'Alt! Who goes there?" shouted a hoarse and unmistakably English voice.
"Freund," promptly replied the German sailor.
It would have been far wiser on his part if he had waited for his fellow-worker, the German agent, to reply, since his knowledge and pronunciation of English were almost perfect. But unfortunately it was the spy who had fallen, and, half-winded by coming in contact with one of the tins, was gasping for breath and at the same time rubbing a barked shin.
"Not good enough for me, old sport," rejoined the challenger, and without further ado he let loose "five rounds rapid".