A voice from beneath the canvas broke in angrily:
“I tell you, they were Germans. It's either a silly joke, or it's serious, and you ought to report it. It's your duty to warn the Coast Guard.”
The constable considered deeply.
“I wouldn't take it on myself to wake the Coast Guard,” he protested; “not at this time of the night. But if any Germans' been annoying you, gentlemen, and you wish to lodge a complaint against them, you give me your cards—”
“Ye gods!” cried the man in the rear of the car. “Go on!” he commanded.
As the car sped out of Stiffkey, Herbert exclaimed with disgust:
“What's the use!” he protested. “You couldn't wake these people with dynamite! I vote we chuck it and go home.”
“They little know of England who only Stiffkey know,” chanted the chauffeur reprovingly. “Why, we haven't begun yet. Wait till we meet a live wire!”
Two miles farther along the road to Cromer, young Bradshaw, the job-master's son at Blakeney, was leading his bicycle up the hill. Ahead of him something heavy flopped from the bank into the road—and in the light of his acetylene lamp he saw a soldier. The soldier dodged across the road and scrambled through the hedge on the bank opposite. He was followed by another soldier, and then by a third. The last man halted.
“Put out that light,” he commanded. “Go to your home and tell no one what you have seen. If you attempt to give an alarm you will be shot. Our sentries are placed every fifty yards along this road.”