“According to the route we mapped out this afternoon,” said Herbert, “We are now scheduled to give exhibitions at the coast towns of Salthouse and Weybourne, but—”
“Not with me!” exclaimed Birrell fiercely. “Those towns have been tipped off by now by Blakeney and Cley, and the Boy Scouts would club us to death. I vote we take the back roads to Morston, and drop in on a lonely Coast Guard. If a Coast Guard sees us, the authorities will have to believe him, and they'll call out the navy.”
Herbert consulted his map.
“There is a Coast Guard,” he said, “stationed just the other side of Morston. And,” he added fervently, “let us hope he's lonely.”
They lost their way in the back roads, and when they again reached the coast an hour had passed. It was now quite dark. There were no stars, nor moon, but after they had left the car in a side lane and had stepped out upon the cliff, they saw for miles along the coast great beacon fires burning fiercely.
Herbert came to an abrupt halt.
“Since seeing those fires,” he explained, “I feel a strange reluctance about showing myself in this uniform to a Coast Guard.”
“Coast Guards don't shoot!” mocked Birrell. “They only look at the clouds through a telescope. Three Germans with rifles ought to be able to frighten one Coast Guard with a telescope.”
The whitewashed cabin of the Coast Guard was perched on the edge of the cliff. Behind it the downs ran back to meet the road. The door of the cabin was open and from it a shaft of light cut across a tiny garden and showed the white fence and the walk of shells.
“We must pass in single file in front of that light,” whispered Ford, “And then, after we are sure he has seen us, we must run like the devil!”