“Guns!” he said devoutly.
And guns they were, rifles, neatly nested between much excelsior, with wicked looking sights of a sort quite new to either of the boys if not to the sergeant.
“Ha! German! Cast your eye on ’em, Flaherty! What do you say to that now? The murderin’ rapscallions! ’Twas to Dublin they was meanin’ to take ’em, mark my words, Flaherty! It’s the Sinn Feiners as landed ’em and that divil of a Rosmoyne crowd that was handlin’ ’em. If them horses didn’t have their last feed forninst the Two Rocks I’ll eat me hat. Unhitch ’em, Flaherty, an’ put ’em in the stable till the Captain comes on an’ tells us what’ll we do with ’em. You gentlemen will wait an’ give your evidence, please. Step inside, sirs.”
“That’s all well enough,” objected Nelson, “but we’re hungry. We haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday noon. We’ll get our breakfasts and be back in half an hour.”
But the sergeant was adamant. They must await the appearance of the captain who was due in another twenty minutes. So, with sighs, they preceded their captor up the steps and into the bare office inside where, for the subsequent twenty or twenty-five minutes, they stifled the demands of two healthy hungers and impatiently awaited the advent of the police captain. The sergeant and the other officer, who appeared to be an ordinary constable, although he exuded so much dignity that the boys were in doubt as to that, were inclined to be chatty but found little encouragement from their guests.
In the course of time, following the arrival of several constables who dribbled in at intervals and had to hear the story of the capture from the sergeant, the captain himself at last materialized. He proved to be a slight, wistful looking man with a Cockney accent and a manner at once apologetic and suspicious. The boys’ troubles began the moment the sergeant had finished his story. The captain bent a mild blue eye on them and announced sadly: “Wotever you sy will be used agynst you, my men.” At least, that is what Martin always stoutly averred that he said. Nelson thinks he phrased it slightly differently.
However, nothing was used against them, so it didn’t matter. The captain asked them so many questions that they were almost dizzy—although lack of food may have had something to do with it—and wrote every answer down slowly, sadly, laboriously. They had to delve into the ancient history to satisfy that official and reveal their ancestors as far back as the third generation, and tell their religious beliefs, political predilections and ethical standards. At last they were allowed to stagger forth, although they were severely informed that it would be their duty to hold themselves in readiness at all times to answer further questions.
If ever food tasted better than it did that morning neither of the boys was able to remember the occasion. They ate until it was necessary to slump down and sit on their spines, until even the cheerful and untidy waitress viewed them apprehensively. After a long, dreamy half hour over the empty coffee cups they arose, paid their scores and made for the landing and the ships to face the music.
Reaching the Gyandotte, Nelson reported to the officer of the deck and hurried below to change his togs before he was sent for to face the first lieutenant. That proved less of an ordeal than he feared, for his straightforward story, strange as it was, carried conviction and even brought more than one fleeting smile to the officer’s face. “I’ll look into the story, Troy,” was the decision, “and if I find it’s just as you’ve told it you’ll hear no more. Hereafter, however, see that you keep close enough to the ship so that weather conditions won’t get you into trouble. Frustrating Feinians is all very well in a way, Troy, but you aren’t here for that.”
In the afternoon the Chief Constable, although that might not have been his real title, came aboard in company with two minor officials and Nelson had to go through his story again. This time he was made to feel somewhat less like a criminal. In fact, the Chief intimated that he and Martin had displayed wit and courage, and seemed inclined to be a trifle grateful; which, considering that they had captured more than a hundred rifles, Nelson secretly thought appropriate. There were most sensational if extremely vague stories in the newspapers in which Martin’s name was “Townser” and Nelson’s “Tory.” That ended the incident, so far as they were concerned. What ultimately became of the white horses, which had so faithfully performed their duty that night, and the creaking wagon, they never learned. They met only once more during the stay at Queenstown, and on that occasion their liberties barely overlapped, and they were together but an hour or so. The next day the submarine flotilla slid quietly out of the harbor, with the old mother ship wobbling along behind, and were soon out of sight around Roche’s Point. On the Gyandotte it was rumored that they were to go up to the north coast of Scotland and join the British submarines on guard there, but no one knew for certain. There were a great many things concerning the movements of ships that one didn’t know in those days.