Kitabı oku: «Number 70, Berlin: A Story of Britain's Peril», sayfa 4
Chapter Seven.
The Spider’s Web
Three weeks went past – dark, breathless weeks in England’s history.
Jack Sainsbury, keeping the knowledge to himself, spent many deep and thoughtful hours over his friend’s tragic end. Several times he suggested to Mr Trustram that, in order to clear up the mystery, the sealed letter should be opened. But Trustram – having given his word of honour to the dead man – argued, and quite rightly, that there was no mystery regarding Jerrold’s death. He had simply committed suicide.
Rodwell and Charles Trustram had, by this time, become very friendly. The latter had been introduced to Sir Boyle Huntley, and the pair had soon introduced the Admiralty official into a higher circle of society than he had ever before attained. Indeed, within a few weeks Rodwell, prime mover of several patriotic funds, had become Trustram’s bosom friend. So intimate did they become that they frequently played golf together at Sunningdale, Berkhampstead or Walton Heath, on such occasions when Trustram could snatch an hour or so of well-earned recreation from the Admiralty; and further, on two occasions Sir Boyle had given him very valuable financial tips – advice which had put into his pocket a very considerable sum in hard cash.
Admiralty officials are not too well paid for their splendid and untiring work, therefore to Charles Trustram this unexpected addition to his income was truly welcome.
The establishment of Lady Betty Kenworthy’s Anti-Teutonic Alliance had caused a wave of indignant hatred of the German across the country, and hence it was receiving universal support. It aimed at the internment of all Germans, both naturalised and unnaturalised, at the drastic rooting out of the German influence in our officialdom, and the ousting of all persons who, in any sphere of life, might possess German connections by blood or by marriage.
While Trustram was, of course, debarred, on account of his official position, from open sympathy with the great movement, Lewin Rodwell and Sir Boyle went up and down the country addressing great and enthusiastic audiences and denouncing in violent terms the subtle influence of “the enemy in our midst.”
Jack Sainsbury watched all this in grim silence. What he had overheard in the boardroom of the Ochrida Copper Corporation rang ever in his ears.
More than once he had sat in Sir Houston Bird’s quiet, sombre consulting-room, and the pair had discussed the situation. Both agreed that the clever masquerade being played by Rodwell and his baroneted puppet was, though entertaining, yet a highly dangerous one. But without being in possession of hard, indisputable facts, how could they act? The British public had hailed Lewin Rodwell as a fine specimen of the truly patriotic Englishman, little dreaming him to be a wolf in sheep’s-clothing. To all and every charitable appeal he subscribed readily, and to his small, snug house in Bruton Street came many of the highest in the land. Alas! that we always judge a man by his coat, his cook, his smiles and his glib speeches. Put a dress-suit upon the biggest scoundrel who ever stood in the dock at the Old Bailey – from Smith who murdered his brides in baths downwards – and he would pass as what the world calls “a gentleman.”
One evening in December – the ninth, to be exact – there had been a big dinner-party at Sir Boyle’s, in Berkeley Square, and afterwards Trustram had accompanied Rodwell home to Bruton Street in a taxi for a smoke.
As the pair – the spider and the fly – sat together before the fire in the small, cosy room at the back of the house which the financier used as his own den, their conversation turned upon a forthcoming meeting at the Mansion House, which it was intended to hold in order to further arouse the Home Office to a true sense of the danger of allowing alien enemies to be at liberty.
“I intend to speak quite openly and plainly upon the subject,” declared Rodwell, leaning back in his chair and blowing a cloud of cigar-smoke from his lips. “The time has now passed for polite speeches. If we are to win this war we must no longer coddle the enemy with Donnington Hall methods. The authorities know full well that there are hundreds of spies among us to-day, and yet they deliberately close their eyes to them. To me their motto seems, ‘Don’t aggravate the Germans. They are such dear good people.’ The whole comedy would be intensely humorous – a rollicking farce – if it were not so terribly pathetic. Therefore, at the meeting, I intend to warn the Government that if some strong measure is not adopted, and at once, the people themselves will rise and take matters into their own hands. There’ll be rioting soon, if something is not done – that’s my firm conviction,” and in his dark eyes was a keen, earnest look, as he waved his white hand emphatically. Truly, Lewin Rodwell was a clever actor, and the line he had taken was, surely, sufficiently bold to remove from him any suspicion of German birth, or of double-dealing.
“Yes, I quite agree,” declared Trustram enthusiastically. “We know well enough at the Admiralty that the most confidential information leaks out to the enemy almost daily, and – ”
“And what can you expect, my dear fellow, when we have so many Germans and naturalised Germans here in our midst?” cried Rodwell, interrupting. “Intern the whole lot – that’s my idea.”
“With that I entirely agree,” exclaimed Trustram, of course believing fully in his friend’s whole-hearted sincerity. “There are far too many Germans in high places, and while they occupy them we shall never be able to combat their craftiness – never!” Lewin Rodwell fixed his cold, keen eyes upon the speaker, and smiled inwardly with satisfaction.
“My poor friend Dr Jerrold held exactly similar views,” Trustram went on. “Dear old Jerrold! He was ever active in hunting out spies. He assisted our Secret Service in a variety of ways and, by dint of diligent and patient inquiry, discovered many strange things.”
“Did he ever really discover any spies?” asked Rodwell in a rather languid voice.
“Yes, several. I happen to know one case – that of a man who collected certain information. The documents were found on him, together with a pocket-book which contained a number of names and addresses of German secret agents in England.” Rodwell instantly became interested.
“Did he? What became of the book? That surely ought to be most valuable to the authorities – eh?”
“It has been, I believe. But, of course, all inquiries of that nature are done by the War Office, so I only know the facts from Jerrold himself. He devoted all the time he could snatch from his profession to the study of spies, and to actual spy-hunting.”
“And with good results – eh? Poor fellow! He was very alert. His was a sad end. Suicide. I wonder why?” asked Rodwell.
“Who knows?” remarked the other, shrugging his shoulders. “We all of us have our skeletons in our cupboards. Possibly his might have been rather uglier than others?”
Rodwell remained thoughtful. Mention of that pocket-book, of which Jerrold had obtained possession, caused him to ponder. That it was in the hands of the Intelligence Department was the reverse of comforting. He had known of the arrest of Otto Hartwig, alias Hart, who had, for many years before the war, carried on business in Kensington, but this was the first he had learnt that anything had been found upon the prisoner.
He endeavoured to gain some further details from Trustram, but the latter had but little knowledge.
“All I know,” he said, “is that the case occupied poor Jerrold fully a month of patient inquiry and watchful vigilance. At last his efforts were rewarded, for he was enabled to follow the man down to Portsmouth, and actually watch him making inquiries there – gathering facts which he intended to transmit to the enemy.”
“How?” asked Rodwell quickly.
“Ah! that’s exactly what we don’t know. That there exists a rapid mode of transmitting secret intelligence across the North Sea is certain,” replied the Admiralty official. “We’ve had illustrations of it, time after time. Between ourselves, facts which I thought were only known to myself – facts regarding the transport of troops across the Channel – have actually been known in Berlin in a few hours after I have made the necessary arrangements.”
“Are you quite certain of that?” Rodwell asked, with sudden interest.
“Absolutely. It has been reported back to us by our friends in Germany.”
“Then we do have friends in Germany?” remarked Rodwell, with affected ignorance.
“Oh, several,” was the other’s reply. Then, in confidence, he explained how certain officers had volunteered to enter Germany, posing as American citizens and travelling from America with American passports. He mentioned two by name – Beeton and Fordyce.
The well-dressed man lolling in his chair, smoking as he listened, made a mental note of those names, and grinned with satisfaction at Trustram’s indiscretions.
Yet, surely, the Admiralty official could not be blamed, for so completely had Lewin Rodwell practised the deception that he believed him to be a sterling Englishman, red-hot against the enemy and all his knavish devices.
“I suppose you must be pretty busy at the Admiralty just now – eh? The official account of the Battle of the Falklands in to-night’s papers is splendid reading. Sturdee gave Admiral von Spee a very nasty shock. I suppose we shall hear of some other naval successes in the North Sea soon – eh?”
Trustram hesitated for a few seconds. “Well, not just yet,” was his brief reply.
“Why do you say ‘not yet’?” he asked with a laugh. “Has the Admiralty some thrilling surprise in store for us? Your people are always so confoundedly mysterious.”
“We have to be discreet,” laughed Trustram. “In these days one never knows who is friend or foe.”
“Well, you know me well enough, Trustram, to be quite certain of my discretion. I never tell a soul any official information which may come to me – and I hear quite a lot from my Cabinet friends – as you may well imagine.”
“I do trust you, Mr Rodwell,” his friend replied. “If I did not, I should not have told you the many things I have regarding my own department.”
Lewin Rodwell smoked on, his legs crossed, his right hand behind his head as he gazed at his friend.
“Well, you arouse my curiosity when you say that the Admiralty have in store a surprise for us which we shall know later. Where is it to take place?”
Again Charles Trustram hesitated. Then he answered, with some reluctance:
“In the North Sea, I believe. A certain scheme has been arranged which will, we hope, prove effectual.”
“A trap, I suppose?”
Trustram laughed faintly.
“I didn’t tell you so, remember,” he said quickly.
“Ah, I see! – a trap to draw the German Fleet north – up towards Iceland. Is my surmise correct?”
Trustram’s smile was a silent affirmative. “This is indeed interesting,” Rodwell exclaimed. “I won’t breathe a word to anyone. When is it to be?”
“Within a week.”
“You mean in a week. To-day is Wednesday – next Wednesday will be the sixteenth.”
Again Trustram smiled, as Rodwell, with his shrewd intelligence, divined the truth.
“It’s all arranged – eh? And orders have been sent out to the Fleet?” asked the financier.
Again Trustram laughingly replied, “I didn’t say so,” but from his friend’s manner Lewin Rodwell knew that he had learnt the great and most valuable secret of the true intentions of the British Navy.
It was not the first piece of valuable information which he had wormed out of his official friends. So clever was he that he now pretended to be highly eager and enthusiastic over the probable result of the strategy.
“Let’s hope Von Tirpitz will fall into the trap,” he said. “Of course it will have to be very cunningly baited, if you are to successfully deceive him. He’s already shown himself to be an artful old bird.”
“Well – without giving anything away – I happen to know, from certain information passing through my hands, that the bait will be sufficiently tempting.”
“So we may expect to hear of a big naval battle about the sixteenth. I should say that it will, in all probability, be fought south of Iceland, somewhere off the Shetlands.”
“Well, that certainly is within the range of probability,” was the other’s response. “All I can tell you – and in the very strictest confidence, remember – is that the scheme is such a cleverly conceived one that I do not believe it can possibly fail.”
“And if it failed?”
“Well – if it failed,” Trustram said, hesitating and speaking in a lower tone – “if it failed, then no real harm would occur – only one thing perhaps: that the East Coast of England might be left practically unguarded for perhaps twelve hours or so. That’s all.”
“Well, that would not matter very much, so long as the enemy obtains no knowledge of the British Admiral’s intentions,” remarked Lewin Rodwell, contemplating the end of his cigar and reflecting for a few seconds.
Then he blurted out:
“Gad! that’s jolly interesting. I shall wait for next Wednesday with all eagerness.”
“You won’t breathe a word, will you? Remember, it was you who obtained the information by suggestion,” Trustram said, with a good-humoured laugh.
“Can’t you really rely on me, my dear fellow, when I give you my word of honour as an Englishman to say nothing?” he asked. “I expect I am often in the know in secrets of the Cabinet, and I am trusted.”
“Very well,” replied his friend. “I accept your promise. Not a word must leak out. If it did, then all our plans would be upset, and possibly it would mean the loss of one, or more, of our ships. But you, of course, realise the full seriousness of it all.”
“I do, my dear Trustram – I do,” was the reassuring answer. “No single whisper of it shall pass my lips. That, I most faithfully promise you.”
Chapter Eight.
Toilers of the North Sea
Just as it was growing dark on the following evening, a powerful pale grey car, with cabriolet body, drew out of the yard of the quaint old Saracen’s Head Hotel at Lincoln, and, passing slowly through the town, set out on the straight, open road which led past Langworth station to Wragby, and on to Horncastle.
The occupant of the car, muffled up as though he were an invalid, had come in from London half an hour before, taken his tea in the coffee-room, and had resumed his journey, together with his smart, clean-shaven chauffeur.
Though he posed as an invalid at the Saracen’s Head, yet as soon as the car had left the town he threw off his thick muffler, opened his coat and drew a long sigh of relief.
Truth to tell, Mr Lewin Rodwell, whose photograph appeared so constantly in the picture-papers, was not over anxious to be seen in Lincoln, or, indeed, in that neighbourhood at all. With Penney, his trusted chauffeur – a man who, like himself, was a “friend of Germany” – he had set out from Bruton Street that morning, and all day they had sat side by side on their journey towards the Fens.
Many times, after chatting with Penney, he had lapsed into long spells of silence, during which time he had puffed vigorously at his cigar, and thought deeply.
Until, after about five miles, they passed Langworth station, they had been content with their side-lights, but soon they switched on the huge electric head-lamps, and then they “put a move on,” as Rodwell was anxious to get to his journey’s end as quickly as possible.
“You’ll drop me, as usual, at the three roads beyond Mumby. Then go into Skegness and put up for the night. Meet me at the same spot to-morrow morning at seven-thirty.”
“Very well, sir,” was the young man’s obedient reply.
“Let’s see,” remarked Rodwell. “When we were up in this lonely, forsaken part of the country a week ago, where did you put up?”
“The last time in Louth, sir. The time before in Lincoln, and the time before that in Grimsby. I haven’t been in Skegness for a full month.”
“Then go there, and mind and keep your mouth shut tight!”
“I always do, sir.”
“Yes, it pays you to do so – eh?” laughed Rodwell. “But I confess, Penney, that I’m getting heartily sick of this long journey,” he sighed, “compelled, as we are, to constantly go many miles out of our way in order to vary the route.”
“The road is all right in summer, sir, but it isn’t pleasant on a cold stormy night like this – especially when you’ve got a two-mile walk at the end of it.”
“That’s just it. I hate that walk. It’s so dark and lonely, along by that open dyke. Yet it has to be done; and, after all, the darker the night – perhaps the safer it is.” Then he lapsed again into silence, while the car – well-driven by Penney, who was an expert driver – flew across the broad open fenlands, in the direction of the sea.
The December night was dark, with rain driving against and blurring the windscreen, in which was a small oblong hole in the glass, allowing Penney to see the long, lonely road before him. Passing the station at Horncastle, they continued through the town and then up over the hill on the Spilsby road and over the wide gloomy stretch until, about half-past seven o’clock, after taking a number of intricate turns up unfrequented fen-roads, they found themselves passing through a small, lonely, ill-lit village. Beyond this place, called Orby, they entered another wide stretch of those low-lying marshes which border the North Sea on the Lincolnshire coast, marshes intersected by a veritable maze of roads, most of which were without sign-posts, and where, in the darkness, it was a very easy matter to lose one’s way.
But Penney – who had left the high road on purpose – had been over those cross-roads on many previous occasions. Indeed, he knew them as well as any Fenman, and without slackening speed or faltering, he at last brought the car to a standstill a few miles beyond the village of Mumby, at a point where three roads met about two miles from the sea.
It was still raining – not quite so heavily as before, but sufficiently to cause Rodwell to discard his fur-lined overcoat for a mackintosh. Then, having placed an electric flash-lamp in his pocket, together with a large bulky cartridge envelope, a silver flask and a packet of sandwiches, he took a stout stick from the car and alighting bade the young man good-night, and set forth into the darkness.
“I wonder whether I’ll be in time?” he muttered to himself in German, going forward as he bent against the cold driving rain which swept in from the sea. He usually spoke German to himself when alone. His way, for the first mile, was beside a long straight “drain,” into which, in the darkness, it would have been very easy to slip had he not now and then flashed on his lamp to reveal the path.
Beneath his breath, in German, he cursed the weather, for already the bottoms of his trousers were saturated as he splashed on through the mud, while the rain beat full in his face. Presently he came in sight of a row of cottage-windows at a place called Langham, and then, turning due north into the marshes, he at last, after a further mile, came to the beach whereon the stormy waters of the North Sea were lashing themselves into a white foam discernible in the darkness.
That six miles of low-lying coast, stretching from the little village of Chapel St. Leonards north to Sutton-on-Sea, was very sparsely inhabited – a wide expanse of lonely fenland almost without a house.
Upon that deserted, low-lying coast were two coastguard stations, one near Huttoft Bank and the other at Anderby Creek, and of course – it being war-time – constant vigil was kept at sea both night and day. But as the district was not a vulnerable one in Great Britain’s defences, nothing very serious was ever reported from there to the Admiralty.
By day a sleepy plain of brown and green marshes, by night a dark, cavernous wilderness, where the wild sea beat monotonously upon the shingle, it was a truly gloomy, out-of-the-world spot, far removed from the bustle of war’s alarm.
Lewin Rodwell, on gaining the beach at the end of a long straight path, turned without hesitation to the right, and walked to the south of the little creek of Anderby for some distance, until he suddenly ascended a low mound close by the sea, half-way between Anderby Creek and Chapel Point, and there before him stood a low-built fisherman’s cottage, partly constructed of wood, which by day was seen to be well-tarred and water-tight.
Within a few yards of the beach it stood, with two boats drawn up near and a number of nets spread out to dry; the home of honest Tom Small and his son, typical Lincolnshire fishermen, who, father and son, had fished the North Sea for generations.
At the Anchor, in Chapel St. Leonards, old Tom Small was a weekly visitor on Saturday nights, when, in that small, close-smelling bar-parlour, he would hurl the most bitter anathemas at the “All Highest of Germany,” and laugh his fleet to scorn; while at Anderby Church each Sunday morning he would appear in his best dark blue trousers, thick blue jacket and peaked cap, a worthy hardworking British fisherman with wrinkled, weatherbeaten face and reddish beard. He was of that hardy type of seafarer so much admired by the town-dweller when on his summer holiday, a man who, in his youth, had been “cox” of the Sutton lifeboat, and who had stirring stories to tell of wild nights around the Rosse Spit and the Sand Haile, the foundering of tramps with all hands, and the marvellous rescues effected by his splendid crew.
It was this man, heavily-booted and deep-voiced, by whom Lewin Rodwell was confronted when he tapped at the cottage door.
“Come, hurry up! Let me in!” cried Rodwell impatiently, after the door was slowly unlocked. “I’m soaked! This infernal neighbourhood of yours is absolutely the limit, Small. Phew!” and he threw down his soaked cap and entered the stone-flagged living-room, where Small’s son rose respectfully to greet him.
“Where are my other clothes?” he asked sharply, whereupon the weatherbeaten fisherman produced from an old chest in the corner a rough suit of grey tweeds, which Rodwell, carried to the inner room on the left, and quickly assumed.
“Pretty nice weather this!” he shouted cheerily to father and son, while in the act of changing his clothes. “Is all serene? Have you tested lately?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the elder man. “I spoke at five o’clock an’ told ’em you were coming. So Mr Stendel is waiting.”
“Good!” was Rodwell’s reply. “Anybody been looking around?”
“Not a soul to-day, sir. The weather’s been bad, an’ the only man we’ve seen is Mr Bennett, from the coastguard station, on his patrol. He was ’ere last night and had a drop o’ whisky with us.”
“Good?” laughed Rodwell. “Keep well in with the coastguard. They’re a fine body, but only a year or so ago the British Admiralty reduced them. It wasn’t their fault.”
“We do keep in with ’em,” was old Tom Small’s reply, as Rodwell re-entered the room in dry clothes. “I generally give ’em a bit o’ fish when they wants it, and o’ course I’m always on the alert looking out for periscopes that don’t appear,” and the shrewd old chap gave vent to a deep guttural laugh.
“Well now, Small, let’s get to work,” Rodwell said brusquely. “I’ve got some important matters on hand. Is all working smoothly?”
“Splendidly, sir,” answered the younger man. “Nothing could be better. Signals are perfect to-night.”
“Then come along,” answered the man who was so universally believed to be a great British patriot; and, turning the handle of the door on the right-hand side of the living-room, he entered a small, close-smelling bedroom, furnished cheaply, as the bedroom of a small struggling fisherman would be. The Smalls were honest, homely folk, the domestic department being carried on by Tom’s younger daughter, Mary, who at the moment happened to be visiting her married sister in Louth.
The son, Ted, having lit a petrol table-lamp – one of those which, filled with spirit, give forth gas from the porous block by which the petrol is absorbed and an intense light in consequence – Lewin Rodwell went to the corner of the room where an old curtain of crimson damask hung before a recess. This he drew aside, when, hanging in the recess, were shown several coats and pairs of trousers – the wardrobe of old Tom Small; while below was a tailor’s sewing-machine on a treadle stand – a machine protected by the usual wooden cover.
The latter he lifted; but beneath, instead of a machine for the innocent needle-and-cotton industry, there was revealed a long electrical tapping-key upon an ebonite base, together with several electrical contrivances which, to the uninitiated, would present a mysterious problem.
A small, neatly-constructed Morse printing machine, with its narrow ribbon of green paper passing through beneath a little glass cover protecting the “inker” from the dust; a cylindrical brass relay with its glass cover, and a tangle of rubber-insulated wires had been hidden beneath that square wooden cover, measuring two and a half feet by one.
Behind the sewing-machine stand, and cunningly concealed, there ran a thick cable fully two inches in diameter, which was nothing else but the shore-end of a submarine cable directly connecting the East Coast of England with Wangeroog, the most northerly of the East Frisian Islands, running thence across to Cuxhaven, at the mouth of the Elbe, and on by the land-line, via Hamburg, to Berlin.
The history of that cable was unknown and unsuspected by the British public, who, full of trust of the authorities, never dreamed that there could possibly be any communication from the English shore actually direct into Berlin. Five years before the declaration of war the German Government had approached the General Post Office, offering to lay down a new cable from Wangeroog to Spurn Head, in order to relieve some of the constantly increasing traffic over the existing cables from Lowestoft, Bacton and Mundesley. Long negotiations ensued, with the result that one day the German cable-ship Christoph passed the Chequer shoal and, arriving off the Spurn Lighthouse, put in the shore-end, landed several German engineers to conduct the electrical control-tests between ship and shore, and then sailed away back to Germany, paying out the cable as she went.
In due course, after the arranged forty days’ tests from Wangeroog to the Spurn, the cable was accepted by the General Post Office, and over it much of the telegraphic traffic between England and Germany had, for the past five years, been conducted.
On the declaration of war, however, telegraph engineers from York had arrived, excavated the cable out of the beach at the Spurn, and effectively cut the line, as all the lines connecting us with German stations had been severed. After that, the British postal authorities contented themselves that no further communication could possibly be established with the enemy, and the public were satisfied with a defiant isolation.
They were ignorant how, ten days after the cables had been cut, old Tom Small, his son and two other men, in trawling for fish not far from the shore, had one night suddenly grappled a long black snaky-looking line, and, after considerable difficulties, had followed it with their grapnels to a certain spot where, with the aid of their winch, they were able to haul it on board in the darkness.
Slimy and covered with weeds and barnacles, that strategic cable had been submerged and lay there, unsuspected, ready for “the Day,” for, truth to tell, the Spurn Head-Wangeroog cable had possessed a double shore-end, one of which had been landed upon British soil, while the other had been flung overboard from the German cable-ship four miles from land, while old Tom Small and his son had been established on shore in readiness to perform their part in dredging it up and landing it when required.
So completely and carefully had Germany’s plans been laid for war that Small, once an honest British fisherman, had unsuspectingly fallen into the hands of a certain moneylender in Hull, who had first pressed him, and had afterwards shown him an easy way out of his financial difficulties; that way being to secretly accept the gift of a small trawler, on condition that, any time his services were required by a strange gentleman who would come down from London and bring him instructions, he would faithfully carry them out.
In the middle of the month of August 1914 the mysterious gentleman had arrived, showed him a marked chart of the sea beyond the five-fathoms line at the Sand Haile, and had given him certain instructions, which he had been forced to carry out.
Not without great difficulty had the second shore-end of the cable been brought ashore at night just opposite his cottage, and dug into the sand at low water, the end being afterwards carried into the little bedroom in the cottage, where, a few days before, several heavy boxes had arrived – boxes which old Tom afterwards saw contained a quantity of electric batteries and weird-looking apparatus.
It was then that Lewin Rodwell arrived for the first time, and, among other accomplishments, being a trained telegraph electrician, he had set the instruments up upon the unsuspicious-looking stand of the big old sewing-machine.
Small, who daily realised and regretted the crafty machinations of the enemy in entrapping him by means of the moneylender in Hull, was inclined to go to the police, confess, and expose the whole affair.
Rodwell, with his shrewd intuition, knew this, and in consequence treated father and son with very little consideration.
Even as he stood in the room that night fingering the secret instruments, which he had just revealed by lifting the cover, he turned to the weatherbeaten old man and said, in a hard, sarcastic voice:
“You see the war is lasting longer than you expected, Small – isn’t it? I suppose you’ve seen all that silly nonsense in the papers about Germany being already at the end of her tether? Don’t you believe it. In a year’s time we shall have only just started.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the old fellow, in a thick voice. “But – well, sir, I – I tell you frankly, I’m growing a bit nervous. Mr Judd, from the Chapel Point coastguard, came ’ere twice last week and sat with me smokin’, as if he were a-tryin’ to pump me.”
