Mr. Croucher's puffy eyes followed the boy as he ran off.
"Just the same as the rest of them," he complained. "There's no worming information out of any of them. One would think that they were all bound down by an oath of secrecy."
Seth Newruck had spoken quite truthfully when he said that he had no time to spare. He was glad to have such a valid excuse to escape from the inquisitive questioning of the old gossip. He was due to report himself for duty at the naval base at eleven o'clock, when Mr. Bilverstone would probably send him on some errand to the coastguards or to the police-station, or give him some piece of clerical work to perform. It was already half-past ten, and he had a long walk through the town.
As he went at scout's pace along the esplanade, he glanced eastward across the sea to a grey-painted gunboat which he quickly recognised as H.M.S. Rapid. She was steaming northward, followed by a flotilla of mine-sweepers. He wished that he might be on board of her, little dreaming that she was destined never again to return to her moorings in Haddisport harbour. He heard a whirring in the air and looked back for a moment to watch a seaplane flying overhead. Very soon the seaplane passed above him, and by something in its colour and structure he knew it to be the machine of which Lieutenant Aldiss was the pilot—Lieutenant Aldiss who had lately done such wonderful, daring things in the aerial raid over Düsseldorf. The aeroplane presently circled round and seemed to hover above some dark-sailed boats outside of Haddisport, as if the pilot were inspecting them with suspicion.
Seth Newruck looked at the boats curiously as he ran, but they were soon hidden from view beyond the trees of the park. He walked through the park and down the long High Street. At the top of each of the narrow scores leading downward to the beach, there was a group of people, eagerly looking out to sea. Beyond the Town Hall, Seth paused and mingled with a group at the top of Fisherman's Score.
"What are they looking at?" he questioned of a man in khaki. "Is it a wreck?"
"Nobody seems to know," the soldier answered. "It's something about those boats out there."
The boats were certainly curious enough to excite interest. Seth Newruck had never seen any exactly like them before, although he prided himself on his knowledge of sailing craft and the varieties of rig. The nearest resemblance to them that he knew were galliots in a Dutch picture at home. They were clumsy, untidy-looking vessels, with bluff bows and weather boards, tall masts, and patched, ill-fitting sails. He counted thirty at the least.
He thought for an instant of Mr. Croucher's often-repeated statement about the flat-bottomed boats in which the Germans were expected to bring over their invading troops. Could these be raiding Germans? he wondered. Then, as one of the sloops turned shoreward, he saw a flag at the peak of her mast. It was black, yellow, and red.
"They're Belgian!" he cried, and ran off down the town.