Then he waited, but in vain.
“Surely the cable, after the great cost to the Empire, has not broken down just at the very moment when we want it!” he exclaimed, speaking in German, as was his habit when excited.
Again he sent the urgent call beneath the waters by the only direct means of communication between Britain’s soil and that of her bitter enemy.
But in Tom Small’s stuffy little bedroom was a silence that seemed ominous. Outside could be heard the dull roar of the sea, the salt spray coming up almost to the door. But there was no answering click upon the instruments.
The electric current from the rows of batteries hidden in the cellar was sufficient, for he had tested it before he had touched the key.
“Tom,” he shouted, summoning the old fisherman whom he had only a few moments before dismissed.
“Yes, sir,” replied the old fellow gruffly, as he stalked forward again, in his long, heavy sea-boots.
“The cable’s broken down, I believe! What monkey-tricks have you been playing—eh?” he cried angrily.
“None, sir. None, I assure you. Ted tested at five o’clock this evening, as usual, and got an acknowledgment. The line was quite all right then.”
“Well, it isn’t now,” was Rodwell’s rough answer, for he detected in the old man’s face a secret gleaming satisfaction that no enemy message could be transmitted.