“Well—something that she can eat, you know.”
“I’ll boil two or three nice fresh crabs. The lady may like ’em, if I dress ’em nice.”
“Excellent!” laughed Rodwell. Truly his was a strange life. One day he ate a perfectly-cooked dinner in Bruton Street, and the next he enjoyed fat bacon cooked by a fisherman in his cottage.
Old Tom, glancing through the window out upon the grey, misty sea, remarked:
“Hulloa! There’s that patrol a-comin’ back. For two days they’ve been up and down from the Spurn to the Wash. Old Fred Turner, on the Seamew, what’s a minesweeper nowadays, hailed me last night when we were baitin’ our pots. He got three mines yesterday. Those devils have sown death haphazard!”
“Devils!” echoed Rodwell, in a reproachful tone. “The Germans are only devils because we are out to win.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” exclaimed the old fellow, biting his lip. “I didn’t think when I spoke.”
“But, Tom, you should never speak before you think. It lands you into trouble always,” his visitor said severely.
“Yes, I—But—I say—look!” cried the old man, starting forward, and craning his neck towards the window. “Why, if there ain’t that there Judd, the coastguard petty-officer from Chapel Point again! An’ he’s a-comin’ across ’ere too.”
“I’ll get into the bedroom,” whispered Rodwell, rising instantly, and bending as he passed the window, so as not to be seen. “Get rid of him—get rid of him as soon as ever you can.”