"Now," exclaimed Froissart, "I will tell to you, my friend Dawson, the

true _histoire_ of my exploits so tremendous and unapproachable. I

reached the station at Plymouth at ten hours, my spy was upon the

platform. I knew him, for those who had kept him under watch had

informed me of him. I had with me two police officers _en bourgeois_,

what you call plain clothes, and I distributed them with the acumen of

a strategist. It was _un train à couloir_. The spy disposed himself in

a compartment. I placed one of my officers in the same compartment

with him, the other in the compartment _contiguée_ towards the engine,

myself in that _à derrière_. He was thus the meat in our sandwich. If

he passed into the corridor and walked this way or that he was seen by

me or by my man in advance; all his movements while within his own

compartment were supervised every moment. So we travelled. He did

himself well that spy so atrocious. He partook of his _déjeuner_ in

the _buffet du train_, and we all three took our _déjeuner_ there

also. That was the last meal of which I ate before this my supper

here. The journey was without incident, but when he arrived at

Waterloo the trouble began. He was not taking risks, that spy. He knew

not that he was under watch, but he took not risks. He began to

perform a voyage designed to throw any man, except one of the

vigilance and resource of Froissart, completely off his track. I was

not learned in your Métropolitain before this day, but now I know your

Tubes as if a map of them were printed in colours upon my hand. At

Waterloo that spy, so astute, burrowed into the earth and entered a

train of the railway called Bakerloo, in which he journeyed to

Golder's Green. Then he crossed a _quai_ and returned to the town

called Camden. Again he descended, passed through tunnels, and

emerging upon another _quai_ proceeded to Highgate. All the while we

three followed, not close, but so that he never escaped from under our

eyes. At Highgate he turned about and returned to Tottenham Court

Road. Thence he departed by another line to the Bank, and, rising in

and _ascenseur_, emerged upon the pavements of your City. He looked

this way and that, not perceiving us who watched, walked warily to the

Lord Maire's station of the Mansion House, boarded the District

Railway, and did not alight till Wimbledon. It was easy to follow, but

my friend, the billets, the tickets, were _une grande difficulté_. I

solved the problem of tickets by my genius so _superbe_. We at first

tried to take them, but _après_ we abandoned the project so hopeless

and travelled _sans payer_. When asked at the barriers or in the

lifts, we offered pennies, and the men who collected took them

joyfully, asking not whence we came. It was _une procédée très

simple_. It is possible that these wayward uncounted pennies dropped

into their own pockets. They rejoiced always to receive them. From

Wimbledon we returned to Earl's Court, and then, descending by an

electric staircase, which moved of itself, again found ourselves in

the Tubes. I loved that _escalier électrique_; one day I will return

and ascend and descend upon it for hours. From Earl's Court we went to

Piccadilly Circus; there we made another change for Oxford Circus;

there we again got out, and at last, after penetrating the bowels of

your London, travelled to Liverpool Street. By this time it had become

dark, and the spy's passion for underground travel had spent itself.

He crossed the street, descended to the grand station of the Eastern

Railway, and took a ticket for Burnham-on-Crouch. Exhausted, but ever

vigilant, Froissart and his faithful men took also tickets for

Burnham-on-Crouch.

"I will not weary you more with our wanderings, but after many hours,

at ten o'clock, we at last arrived at this place. The spy was met upon

the _quai_ by another villain, with whom he held converse, and the

pair of them, ignorant that the vengeance of Froissart overshadowed

them, marched heedlessly, openly, to the river side and entered a

large house of which the gardens ran down to the water. I left there

my two faithful but weary ones on watch, and hastened to the _salle de

police_. There an Inspector and a young _officier anglais_--a

sub-lieutenant of the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve--were awaiting my

arrival with impatience. To them I told my story with the brevity that

I now recount it to you. They were intrigued greatly, and the

_sous_-lieutenant struck me violently upon the back and said, _ma

foi_, that I was a 'downy old bird,' It was a compliment _très

'bizarre mais très aimable._ I was, it appeared, an old bird of the

downiest plumage. I had noted the name of the house, and the Inspector

seized a Directory. 'We have suspected that house for some time,' said

he. There is a big boat-house at the bottom of the garden containing a

large sea-going motor-boat. The proprietor calls himself English, but

does not look like one. He is doubtless a snake, one whom they call

_naturalisé_, a viper whom we English have warmed in our bosoms.' So

spake the Inspector. The Sub-Lieutenant whistled. He said only, 'Send

for little Tommy; it is a job for him.' A call was sent forth, and

there came into the room a scrap of an infant, habited in short

pantaloons and a green shirt. The child carried a long pole and stood

stiffly at attention. '_Ma foi_, do I see before me a Boy Scout?' I

asked. 'You do,' replied the Sub-Lieutenant. 'This is little Tommy,

the patrol leader of the Owls.' '_Mon Dieu_' I cried, 'an Owl! _Un

Hibou_! Is he then stupid as an owl?' I could see that the Tommy so

small frowned savagely, but the Sub-Lieutenant laughed. 'You will see

presently if he is stupid. I have forty miles of coast to watch, and I

do it all with Boy Scouts like this one.' '_Nom d'un chien_,' I cried.

'You English are a great people.' 'We are,' agreed the Sub-Lieutenant,

'devilish great.' Tommy grinned.

"Then the officer so youthful--his age could not have exceeded

nineteen years--gave orders to the little Tommy. He was to go to the

house, to enter the garden, to squeeze his tiny person into the

boat-house, and watch. When the spy and his associates went towards

the boat, Tommy was to warn us with a hoot--like an owl--and we were

to take charge. At least so I understood the orders given in a strange

sea language. Tommy saluted, and vanished. If he had ten years, I

should be astonished; but he was a man, every inch of him. Wait till I

have finished.

"We followed quickly behind Tommy, but saw him not, and joined my men,

who still watched the house. The Sub-Lieutenant and I moved warily,

climbed over the wall of the garden, and crept along the grass, soft

like moss to our feet, till we could see the boat-house stand out

against the dull shine of the river. There was no sign of the presence

of _le petit Hibou_. Suddenly the door of the house, which gave upon

the garden, opened, and four men walked down to the boat-house and

entered stealthily. My heart turned to water--what a calamity if they

should find and slay the pretty little Owl! The minutes passed,

perhaps five, perhaps ten, and then quite close we heard the soft low

hoot of an owl. The Sub-Lieutenant hooted a reply, and from among some

bushes there came out that serene, intrepid infant with the pole! He

joined us, and whispered eagerly to the officer. I could not hear what

he said. Afterwards the Sub-Lieutenant told me that the men had

entered, three had got into the boat, one remaining on land. It was a

forty-foot boat, reported Tommy--who seemed of wisdom and knowledge

encyclopaedic--it had a big cabin forrard, the engine was a

Wotherspoon, ten cylinders set V-fashion, the power a hundred horses.

So Tommy had observed and reported, and so I repeat to you. As we

watched we saw the boat push out into the river, turn towards the sea;

the engine so powerful buzzed like a million bees, a wave curled up in

front, and it sped away for Holland like the shot of an arrow. The

night was fine, the sea calm; it would complete the voyage in safety.

But upon return what a surprise has been prepared for that motor-boat

and its detestable owner! What a surprise, _ma foi_. I yearn to hear

of the dénouement.

"'We will nab the fourth man who has stayed behind,' whispered the

officer, and we crept towards the boat-house. We were ten yards away

when he issued forth and turned to lock the door. Then we sprang upon

him. He was very quick--like the big snake that he was. He heard us,

spun round, and struck two blows of his fist. The Sub-Lieutenant got

one upon his beautiful nose; I got the other here under the jaw. We

were shot, sprawling, upon the grass, one to each side, and the

villain, springing between us, started to flee. I was struck down, but

not stunned; I was alert, undefeated, eager to resume the battle. I

rose to my knees. I saw the villain fleeing up the grass. Ah, he would

escape! But I had not reckoned upon the patrol leader, the little Owl,

the _Hibou_ of a Boy Scout so deft and courageous. The spy fled, but

into his path sprang the tiny figure of the Owl, his pole in rest like

a lance. They met, the man and the little Owl, and the shock of that

tourney aroused the echoes of the night. The man, hit in the belly by

the point of the pole, collapsed upon the grass, and the Owl, driven

backwards by the weight of the man, rolled over and over like _un

hérisson_. He was no longer an Owl; he was a round Hedgehog! I was

consumed with admiration for the gallant Owl. I got to my feet, I

jumped across the lawn, and fell with both knees hard upon the carcase

so foul of the spy whom I had pursued all day. He lay groaning from

the grievous pain in his belly, and I put upon him the handcuffs

before that he could recover. The little Tommy, the Hedgehog, picked

himself up, staggered to the body of his enemy, and there, leaning

upon the admirable pole which he had not released in his somersaults,

gave forth a hoot of victory. It was the Day of Tommy. But for that

morsel of a wise Owl the spy would have escaped. I embraced Tommy, who

wriggled with discomfort; the Sub-Lieutenant shook his hand, which he

appreciated the more. 'Good work,' said the officer. 'Thank you, sir,'

said Tommy. That was all; no emotion, no compliments, no embraces.

'Good work.' 'Thank you, sir.' _Ma foi_, what a people are the

English!

"We locked up the spy. The Sub-Lieutenant told me that wireless orders

had gone out to the patrols spread far over the seas. The boat, of

which we had the name and description, would arrive at Holland, but

upon its return on the morrow it would be seized and escorted to

Harwich. If by mischance it eluded the patrols, it would be captured

when it arrived in the river Crouch. All was provided for. The false

news has gone to Holland, and Froissart has done good work. I ask for

no reward; I will be like the English--cold, implacable. When the

officer said at parting to me, 'Good work, M. Froissart, we are much

obliged to you,' I replied calmly, 'Thank you, sir,' I had, you will

observe, modelled myself upon the little Owl.

"And you, Mr. Dawson," concluded Froissart, wiping his face, for the

effort of talking so much English had brought out the sweat upon him,

"have you also succeeded?"

"Yes," said Dawson curtly, "I have also done my work, but it was not

exciting. My man was no spy, and the real news about the _Intrepid_

and _Terrific_ will not get through to Germany."

"Saved," roared Froissart, springing to his feet. "We are colleagues

most perfect. We have done work of the most good. _Embraçons nous, mon

ami_." Then occurred that deplorable incident which has already been

related. Froissart in his enthusiasm embraced the unresponsive Dawson,

and was laid out by a short-arm jab upon the diaphragm. It was really

too bad of Dawson; but then, as I have said, his temper was atrocious.

* * * * *

The two battle-cruisers remained upon the shoals of Picklecombe Point

all through November and well into the following month. The great

salvage steamer with the arc light went away, but others remained.

Work seemed to proceed, though it was unaccountably slow in producing

a result. The Three Towns lost interest in the derelicts until one

evening there fell upon them a blow which set them gasping for

coherent speech. The newsboys were crying in the streets a Special

Edition, very Special. Set in dirty type in an odd column, headed with

the mysterious words "Stop Press," appeared an announcement by the

Admiralty that far away in the South Seas the battle-cruisers

_Intrepid_ and _Terrific_, under the command of Vice-Admiral Stocky,

had met and sunk the lately victorious German Squadron! It was

glorious news, but the Three Towns thought little at the moment of the

glory. They urgently hungered for an explanation of the inscrutable

means by which two battle-cruisers, mined and cast upon the shoals

below Mount Edgecumbe under their very eyes, could race hot foot to

the South Seas and there lay out a German squadron. As soon as the

winter dawn broke an immense crowd surged upon the Hoe gazing into

blank space. The two battle-cruisers, which for a month had lain

helpless before them, were gone! Gone, too, were the salvage steamers

and the patrol boats. The waters which had been so active and crowded

were void! Then the Three Towns understood; they grasped, men, women

and children, the great spoof of which they had been the interested

victims, and their approving laughter rose to Heaven. For in all that

appertains to the Royal Navy every one born within the circuit of the

Three Towns is very wise indeed.

PART IV

_THE CAPTAIN OF MARINES_

CHAPTER XV

DAWSON REAPPEARS

I had seen nothing of Dawson during my intimate association with

Madame Gilbert. He had written to me copiously--for a very busy man he

was a curiously voluminous letter-writer. He always employed the backs

of official forms and wrote in pencil. His handwriting, large and

round, was that of a man who had received a good and careful Board

School education, but was quite free from personal characteristics.

Dawson's letters in no respect resembled the man. They were very long,

very dull, and very crudely phrased. He had evidently tried to put

them into what he conceived to be a literary shape, and the effect was

deplorable. One may read such letters, the work of unskilled writers,

in the newspapers which devote space to "Correspondence." The writers,

like Dawson, can probably talk vividly and forcibly, using strong

nervous vernacular English, but the moment they take the pen all

thought and individual character become swamped in a flood of turgid,

commonplace jargon. I was disappointed with Dawson's letters, and I am

sure that he will be even more disappointed when he finds none of them

made immortal in this book. His purpose in sending them to me will

have been ruthlessly defeated.

A week after Madame had vanished down my lift for the last time,

Dawson--in the make-up with which I was most familiar--called upon me

at my office. He also came to say good-bye, for a turn of the official

wheel had come, and he was ordered south to resume his duties at the

Yard. He was, he told me, taking a last tour of inspection to make

certain that the Secret Service net, which he had designed and laid,

would be deftly worked by the hands of his subordinates. "I shall not

be sorry," said he, "to get back to my deserted family and to be once

more the plain man Dawson whom God made."

"You have so many different incarnations," I observed, "that I wonder

the original has not escaped your memory."

He smiled. "If I had forgotten," said he, "my wife would soon remind

me. She always insists that she married a certain man Dawson and

declines to recognise any other."

"So if I come south to visit you, I shall see the original?"

"You will."

"Thanks," said I; "I will come at the earliest opportunity."

"I don't say that if you call at the Yard you will see quite the same

person whom you will meet at Acacia Villas, Primrose Road, Tooting."

"That would be too much to expect. But under any guise, Dawson, I am

always sure of knowing you."

"Yes, confound you. I would give six months' pay to know how you do

it."

"You shall know some day, and without any bribery. Now that you are

here, talk, talk, talk. I want to get the taste of those rotten

letters of yours out of my mouth."

He looked surprised and hurt. He looked exactly as a famous sculptor

looked who, when a beautiful work of his hands was unveiled, wished me

to publish a descriptive sonnet from his pen. I bluntly refused. He

was an admirable sculptor, but a dreadful sonneteer. Yet in his secret

heart he valued the sonnet far above the statue. In this strange way

we are made.

I did not conceal from Dawson my interest in Madame Gilbert, and he

rather rudely expressed strong disapproval. He suggested that for a

married man I was much too free in my ways. "That woman is full of

brains," said he, "but she is the artfullest hussy ever made. She will

turn any man around her pretty fingers if he gives way to her. She has

made a nice fool of you and of that ass Froissart. She even tried her

little games with me--with me indeed. But I was too strong for her."

I regarded Dawson with some interest and more pity. The poor fellow

did not realise that Madame had for years moulded him to her hands

like potter's clay. She had mastered him by ingenuously pretending

that he stood upon a serene pinnacle far removed from her influence.

He had preened his feathers and done her bidding.

"We are not all strong--like you, Dawson," said I mildly.

I switched Dawson off the subject of Madame Gilbert, and directed his

mind towards the contemplation of his own exploits. When handled

judiciously he will talk freely and frankly, giving away official

secrets with both hands. But his confidences always relate to the

past, to incidents completed. When he has a delicate job on hand, he

can be as close as the English Admiralty, even to me. He has no sense

of proportion. Again and again he has recounted the interminable

details of cases in which I take not the smallest interest, and has

ignored all my efforts to dam the unprofitable flood of narrative and

to divert the current into more fruitful channels. He looks at

everything from the Dawson standpoint, and cares for nothing which

does not add to the glory of Dawson. Unless he fills the stage, an

incident has for him no value or concern. Happily for me the most

startling of his exploits, that of bending a timid War Committee of

the Cabinet to his will in the winter of 1915-1916, and of bluffing

into utter submission nearly a hundred thousand rampant munition

workers who were eager to "down tools," fulfils all the Dawson

conditions of importance. He and he alone filled a star part, to him

and to him alone belonged the success of an incredibly bold manoeuvre.

I have drawn Dawson as I saw him, in his weakness and in his strength.

I have revealed his vanity and the carefully hidden tenderness of his

heart. In my whimsical way I have perhaps treated him as essentially a

figure of fun. But though I may smile at him, even rudely laugh at

him, he is a great public servant who once at least--though few at the

time knew--saved his country from a most grievous peril.

In the early weeks of 1916, when work for the Navy, and work in the

gun and ammunition shops which were rapidly being organised all over

the country, were within a very little of being suspended by a general

strike of workmen, terrified for their threatened trade-union

privileges, the strength and resource of Dawson put forth boldly in

the North dammed the peril at its source. In spite of the penalties

laid down in Munition Acts, in spite of the powers vested in military

authorities by the Defence of the Realm Regulations, there would have

been a great strike, and both the Navy and the New Army would have

been hung up gasping for the ships, the guns, and the supplies upon

which they had based all their plans for attack and defence. The

danger arose over that still insistent problem--the "dilution of

labour." The new armies had withdrawn so many skilled and unskilled

workmen from the workshops, and the demands for munitions of all kinds

were so overwhelming, that wholly new and strange methods of

recruiting labour were urgent. Women must be employed in large

numbers, in millions; machinery must be put to its full use without

regard for the restrictions of unions, if the country were to be

saved. Many of the younger and more open-minded of the trade-union

officials had enlisted; many of those older ones who remained could

not bend their stiff minds to the necessity for new conditions. They

were not consciously unpatriotic--their sons were fighting and dying;

they were not consciously seditious, though secret enemy agents moved

amongst them, and talked treason with them in the jargon of their

trades. They simply could not understand that the hardly won

privileges of peace must yield to the greater urgencies of war.

Civilians came north to examine the position on behalf of the Ministry

of Munitions; they came, wrung their hands, and reported in terror

that if dilution were pressed, a hundred thousand men would be "out."

Yet the risk had to be taken, for dilution must be pressed. Dawson was

hard at work sweeping into his widespread net all those whom he knew

to be enemy agents and all those whom he suspected. It was not an

occasion for squeamishness. With the consent of his official

superiors, he picked up with those prehensile fingers of his many of

the most troublesome of the union agitators, and deported them to safe

spots far distant, where they were constrained to cease from

troubling. Still the danger increased, and he saw that a few days only

could intervene between industrial peace and war. Already the

manufacture of heavy howitzers for the Spring Offensive had been

stopped--by a cunning embargo upon small essential parts--and the

moment had arrived for a trial of strength between authority and

rebellion. He made up his mind, plainly told his chiefs what his plans

were, obtained their whole-hearted concurrence, and went south by the

night train. By telegram he had sent an ultimatum which struck awe

into the official mind. "Unless," he wired, in code, "the Cabinet

wants a revolution, it had better meet at once and call me in. Unless

it does this at once I shall not go back here. I shall resign, and

leave the Government in the soup where it deserves to be."

Such a message from a man who in official eyes was no more than a

Chief Inspector of Police was in itself a portent. It revealed how

completely war had upset all official standards and conventions.

To the Chief, his Commissioner, he opened his mind freely. "I am about

fed up with politicians and lawyers," said he. "There is big trouble

coming, and not a man of them all has the pluck to get his blow in

first. I have always found that men will respect an order--they like

to be governed--but they despise slop. What the devil's the use of

Ministers going North and telling the men how well they have done, and

how patriotic they are, when the men themselves all know that they've

done damn badly and mean to do worse? I could settle the whole

business in twenty-four hours."

"They are frightened men, Dawson," said the Chief. "That is the matter

with the Government. They have been brought up to slobber over the

public and try to cheat it out of votes. They can't tell the truth.

When hard deadly reality breaks through their web of make-believe,

they cower together in corners and howl. I doubt if you will get a

free hand, Dawson. What do you want--martial law?"

"Yes. That, or something like it. If I have the threat of it at my

back, so that it rests with me, and me alone, to put it into force, I

shall not need to use it. But I must go North with the proclamation in

my pocket or I shall not go North at all. Here is my resignation."

Dawson tossed a letter upon the table, and laughed. The Chief picked

it up and read the curt lines in which Dawson delivered his last word.

"Good man," commented he; "that is the way to talk. They can't

understand how any man can have the grit to resign a fat job before he

is kicked out. They never do. They compromise. You may put starch into

their soft backbones, but personally I doubt the possibility. But at

least you will get your chance. There is to be a meeting of the War

Committee the first thing to-morrow morning and you are to be

summoned. I told the Home Secretary that I should resign myself if

they did not give you a full opportunity to state your case. I will

support you as long as I am in this chair."

Dawson held out his hand. "Thank you," he said simply. The two men

clasped hands and looked into one another's eyes. "It is a good

country, Dawson," said the Chief--"a jolly good country, and worth big

risks to oneself. It will be saved by plain, honest men if it is to be

saved at all. Our worst enemies are not the Germans, but our

flabby-fibred political classes at home. The people are just crying

out to be told what to do, and to be made to do it. Yet nobody tells

them. Don't let the Cabinet browbeat you, and smother you with

plausible sophistries. Just talk plain English to them, Dawson."

"I will. For once in their sheltered lives they shall hear the truth."

For what follows, Dawson is my principal, but not my sole authority. I

have tested what he told me in every way that I could, and the test

has held. Somehow--I am prepared to believe in the manner told by

him--he forced the Cabinet to give him the authority for which he

asked, and he used it in the manner which I shall tell of. He held

what is always a first-rate advantage: he knew exactly what he wanted,

no more or less, and was prepared to get it or retire from official

life. Those who gave to him authority gave it reluctantly--gave it

because they were between the devil and the deep sea. They would

gladly have thrown over Dawson, but they could not throw over the

civil and military powers who supported him in his demands. And had

they thrown him over they would have been left to deal by their

incompetent unaided selves with a strike in the midst of war which

might have spread like a prairie fire over the whole country. But

though they bent before Dawson, I am very sure that they did not love

him, and that he will never be the Chief Commissioner of Metropolitan

Police. Against his name in the official books stands a mark of the

most deadly blackness. Strength and success are never pardoned by

weakness and failure.

When at last Dawson was summoned to the sitting; of the War Committee,

he found himself in the presence of some half a dozen elderly and

embarrassed-looking gentlemen arranged round a big table. They had

been discussing him, and trying to devise some decent civil means to

get rid of him. He and his story of the coming strike in the North

were a distressful inconvenience, an intolerable intrusion upon a

quiet life. When he entered, he was without a friend in the room,

except the War Minister who loved a man who knew his own mind and was

prepared to accept big responsibilities. But even he doubted whether

it were possible to achieve the results aimed at with the means

required by Dawson.

Our friend suffered from no illusions. "I knew what I was up against,"

he said to me long afterwards. "I knew that they were all longing to

be quit of me and to go to sleep again. But I had made up my mind that

they should get some very plain speaking. I would compel them to

understand that what I offered was a forlorn chance of averting a

civil war, and that if they refused my offer they would be left to

themselves--not to stamp out a spark of revolution, but to subdue a

roaring furnace. They could take their choice in the certain knowledge

that if they chose wrongly the North would be in flames within

forty-eight hours. It was a great experience, Mr. Copplestone. I have

never enjoyed anything half so much."

Dawson was offered a chair set some six feet distant from the sacred

table, but he preferred to stand. His early training held, and he was

not comfortable in the presence of his superiors in rank or station

except when standing firmly at attention.

The Prime Minister fumbled with some papers, looked over them for a

few embarrassed minutes, and then spoke.

"Great pressure has been placed upon us, Mr. Dawson, to see you and to

hear your report. Great pressure--to my mind improper pressure. I have

here letters from Magistrates, Lords Lieutenant, competent military

authorities, naval officers superintending shipyards, officials of the

Munitions Department. They all declare that the industrial outlook in

the North is most perilous, and that at any moment a situation may

arise which will be fraught with the gravest peril to the country. We

have replied that the law provides adequate remedies, but to that the

retort is made that the men who are at the root of the grave troubles

pending snap their fingers at the law. We are pressed to take counsel

with you, though why the high officers who communicate with me should,

as it were, shift their responsibilities upon the shoulders of a Chief

Inspector of Scotland Yard I am at a loss to comprehend. What I would

ask of my colleagues is this: who is in fact responsible for the

maintenance of a due observance of law in the Northern district from

which you have come, and where you appear to discharge unofficial and

wholly irregular functions? Who is responsible? Perhaps my learned

friend the Home Secretary can enlighten us?" The Prime Minister

paused, and smiled happily to himself. He had at least made things

nasty for an intrusive colleague. But the Home Secretary, suave,

alert, was not to be caught. He at any rate was not prepared to admit

responsibility.

"It is possible, sir," he said, "that in some vague, undefined,

constitutional way I am responsible for the police service of the

United Kingdom. But happily my direct charge does not in practice

extend beyond England. The centre of disturbance appears to be on the

northern side of the Border, within the jurisdiction of the Secretary

for Scotland. It is possible that my right honourable friend who holds

that office, and whom I am pleased to see here with us, will answer

the Prime Minister's question. He is responsible for his obstreperous

countrymen." The Home Secretary paused, and also smiled happily to

himself. He had evaded a trap, and had involved an unloved colleague

in its meshes; what more could be required of a highly placed

Minister?

"God forbid!" cried the Scottish Secretary hastily. "These aggressive

and troublesome workmen are no countrymen of mine. It is true," he

added pensively, "that when I am in the North I claim that a somewhat

shadowy Scottish ancestry makes of me a Scot to the finger tips, but

no sooner do I cross the Border upon my return to London than I revert

violently to my English self. A kindly Providence has ordained that

the central Scottish Office should be in London, and my urgent duties

compel me to reside there permanently. Which is indeed fortunate. It

is true that technically my responsibilities cover everything, or

nearly everything, which occurs in the unruly North, but I do not

interfere with the discretion of those on the spot who know the local

conditions and can deal adequately with them. I am content to rest my

action upon the advice of those responsible authorities whose

considered opinions have been quoted by the Prime Minister."

The Prime Minister smiled no more. The wheel which he had jogged so

agreeably had come full round, and, in colloquial speech, had biffed

him in the eye. He fumbled the papers once more, and frowned.

"It seems to me," plaintively put in the First Lord of the Admiralty

(a political chief very different from the one whom Dawson encountered

in Chapter XII), "though I am a child in these high matters, that no

one is ever responsible for the exercise of those duties with which he

is nominally charged. For, consider my own case. Though I am the First

Lord, and attend daily at the Admiralty, I am convinced that the

active and accomplished young gentleman whom I had the misfortune to

succeed regards himself as still responsible to the people of this

country for the disposition and control of the Fleets. At least that

is the not unnatural impression which I derive from his frequent

speeches and newspaper articles."

There was a general laugh, in which all joined except the War Minister

and Dawson. They were not politicians.

"If there is a big strike," growled the War Minister, "the Spring

Offensive will be off. It is threatened now, very seriously. I am

months behind with my howitzers."

His colleagues looked reproachfully at the famous warrior, and shifted

uneasily in their chairs. He had an uncomfortable habit of blurting

forth the most unpleasant truths.

"Yes," put in the Minister for Munitions, "we are behind with the

howitzers and with ammunition of all kinds. But what can one do with

these savage brutes in the North? I went there myself and spoke

plainly to them. By God's grace I am still alive, though at one moment

I had given up myself for lost. At one works where I made a speech the

audience were armed with what I believe are called monkey wrenches,

and showed an almost uncontrollable passion for launching them at my

head. I was hustled and wellnigh personally assaulted. Like my

patriotic friend the Scottish Secretary, I was very happy indeed when

I got south of the Border. The central office of the Munitions

Department is happily in London, and my urgent duties compel me to

reside there permanently. I have no leisure for roving expeditions."

"This is very interesting," broke in the First Lord, who lay back in

his chair with shut eyes. "There appears to be no eagerness on the

part of any one of us to stick his hands into the northern hornets'

nest, or to admit any responsibility for it. All of us, that is,

except our courageous and silent friend Mr. Dawson." He opened his

eyes and smiled most winningly towards Dawson. "Would it not be well

if we gave him an opportunity of telling us what his views are?"

"I have been waiting for him to begin," growled the War Minister.

"We are at your service, Mr. Dawson," said the Prime Minister

graciously.

Dawson, standing stiffly at attention, had closely followed the

conversation, and, as it proceeded, his heart sank. He despaired of

discovering courage and quick decision in the group of Ministers

before him. Yet when called upon he made a last effort. If the country

were to be saved, it must be saved by its people, not by its

politicians, and he was a man of the people, resolute, enduring, long

suffering.

"Gentlemen," said he, "we are threatened with a strike in the Northern

shops and shipyards which will cripple the country. It will begin

within forty-eight hours. I can stop it if I go North to-night with

the full powers of the Government in my pocket, and with the means for

which I ask. All the authorities in the North, civil, military and

naval, have approved of my plans. I ask only leave to carry them out."

"Your plans are?" snapped the War Minister.

"To get my blow in first," said Dawson simply.

The First Lord again looked at Dawson, and a glint of fighting light

flashed in his tired eyes. "Thrice armed is he who has his quarrel

just; and four times he who gets his blow in first. How would you do

it, Mr. Dawson."

"Yes, how?" eagerly inquired the War Minister.

"I have served," said Dawson, "in most parts of the world. When in

West Africa one is attacked by a snake, one does not wait until it

bites. One cuts off its head."

"You have served?" asked the War Minister. "In what Service?"

"The Red Marines," proudly answered Dawson.

"Ah!" The War Minister was plainly interested, and Dawson had, during

the rest of the interview, no eyes for any one except for him and for

the First Lord. He recognised these two as brother fighting men. The

others he waved aside as civilian truck. "Ah! The Red Marines. Long

service men, the best we have. So you would cut off the snake's head

before it can bite."

"To-morrow afternoon," explained Dawson, "I must attend a meeting of

shop stewards, over two hundred of them. They contain the head of the

snake. Give me powers, a proclamation of martial law which I may show

them, and I will cut off the snake's head."

"You soldiers are always prating about martial law," grumbled the

Prime Minister. "We have given to you the amplest powers under the

Defence of the Realm Act and the Munitions Act to punish strikers.

Those are sufficient. I have no patience with plans for enforcing a

military despotism."

"Excuse me, sir," said Dawson patiently, as to a child, "but if a

hundred thousand men go out on strike, your Acts of Parliament will be

waste paper. You cannot lock up or fine a hundred thousand men, and if

you could you would still be unable to make them work. No means have

ever been devised to make unwilling men work, except the lash, and

that is useless with skilled labour. No one in the North cares a rap

for Acts of Parliament, but there is a mystery about martial law which

carries terror into the hardest heart and the most stupid brain. I

want a signed proclamation of martial law, but I undertake not to

issue it unless all other forms of pressure fail. I must have it all

in cold print to show to the shop stewards when I strike my blow.

Without that proclamation I am helpless, and you will be helpless,

too, by Friday next. This is Wednesday. Unless I cut off the snake's

head to-morrow, it will bite you here even in your sheltered London."

The Prime Minister fumbled once more with the papers before him, but

they gave him no comfort. All advised the one measure of giving full

authority to Dawson and of trusting to his energy and skill. "Dawson

is a man of the people, and knows his own class. He can deal with the

men; we can't." So the urgent appeals ran.

"And if you do not succeed? If you proclaim martial law and we have to

enforce it, where shall we be then?"

"No worse off than you will be anyhow by Friday," said Dawson curtly.

"So you say. But suppose that we think you needlessly fearful. Suppose

that we prefer to wait until Friday and see; what then?"

"You will see what has not been seen in our country for over a hundred

years," retorted Dawson. "You will see artillery firing shotted guns

in the streets."

The Prime Minister shrugged his shoulders, but the War Secretary

turned to his pile of maps and picked up one on which was marked all

the depôts and training camps in the northern district. "How many men

do you want?" he asked.

"No khaki, thank you," replied Dawson. "It is not trained, and the

workmen are used to it. To them khaki means their sons and brothers

and friends dressed up. I want my own soldiers of the _Sea Regiment_

in service blue. I want eighty men from my old division at Chatham."

"Eighty!" cried the War Minister--"eighty men! You are going to stop a

revolution with eighty Red Marines!"

"I could perhaps do with fewer," explained Dawson modestly. "But I

want to make sure work. Give me eighty Marines, none of less than five

years' service, a couple of sergeants, and a lieutenant--a regular

pukka lieutenant. Give them to me, and make me temporarily a captain

in command, and I will engage to cut off the snake's head. You can

have my own head if I fail."

The Great War Minister rose, walked over to Dawson, and shook his

embarrassed hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dawson," said he.

The First Lord, now fully awake, sat up and stared earnestly at the

detective. Those two, the chiefs of the Navy and the Army, had grasped

the startling fact that for once they were in the presence of a Man.

The others saw only a rather ill-dressed, intrusive, vulgar police

officer.

"I have rarely met a man with so economical a mind," went on the War

Minister, who resumed his seat. "If you had asked me for eight

thousand, I should not have been surprised." He turned to the Prime

Minister. "If our resolute friend here can stop a revolution with

eighty Red Marines, let him have them in God's name."

"Oh, he can have the Marines," growled the Prime Minister--"if the

First Lord agrees. They are in his department. And if it pleases him

to dress up as a temporary captain, that is nothing to me; but I draw

a firm line at any proclamation of martial law."

"Well," asked the War Minister of Dawson, "what say you?"

"I must have the proclamation, my lord," replied Dawson. "Not to put

up in the streets, but to show to the shop stewards. They won't

believe that the Cabinet has any spunk until they see the proclamation

signed by you. They know that what you say you do."

["Great Heavens," I said to Dawson, when he recounted to me the

details of his surprising interview with the War Committee, "tact is

hardly your strong suit. You could not have asked more plainly to be

kicked out. The flabbier a Cabinet is, the more convinced are its

members of adamantine resolution."

"If I had to go down and out," replied Dawson, "I had determined to go

fighting. I was there to speak my mind, not to flatter anybody."]

The silence which followed this awful speech could be felt. The Prime

Minister gasped, flushed to the eyes, and half rose to dismiss Dawson

from the room. He himself thought for a moment that all was lost, when

through the tense atmosphere ran a ripple of gay laughter. It was the

First Lord who, with instant decision, had taken the only means to

save his new friend Dawson. He has a delightfully infectious silvery

laugh, and the effect was electrical. The War Minister opened his

great mouth, and bellowed Ha! Ha! Ha! The Minister of Munitions put

his head down on the table and shrieked. Even the Home Secretary, a

severe, humourless, legal gentleman, cackled. The Prime Minister,

whose perceptions were of the quickest, saw that anger would be

ridiculous in the midst of laughter. He admitted the First Lord's

victory, and forced a smile.

"You are not a diplomatist, Mr. Dawson," said he reprovingly.

"Like Marcus Antonius," whispered the First Lord, as he wiped his eyes

delicately, "he is a plain, blunt man."

The War Minister pulled a sheet of paper towards' him and began to

write. He scribbled for a few minutes, made a few corrections, and

then read out slowly the words which he had set down. All present saw

that the moment of acute crisis had arrived.

"That is all that I want," said Dawson. "If you will sign that paper,

my lord, I need not trouble you gentlemen any longer."

"I am one of His Majesty's principal Secretaries of State," observed

the War Minister. "Shall I sign, sir?"

"I believe," remarked the Home Secretary primly, "that if one has

regard for strict historical accuracy there is but one Secretary of

State, and that I am that one."

"I will not trouble you," said the War Minister.

"I am technically responsible for the country over which I am supposed

to rule," put in the Scottish Secretary plaintively. "I speak, of

course under correction, but north of the Border my signature might--"

"You are not a Secretary of State," growled the War Minister, "and

your seat is not safe. No one shall sign except myself, for I have no

need to seek after working-class votes. Dawson and I will face this

music."

"And if I decline to permit you to sign?" asked the Prime Minister

blandly. "This is not a Cabinet meeting, and we have no power to

commit the Government to so grave a step."

"You will require to fill up the vacant position of Secretary for

War," came the answer.

"And also the humble post of First Lord of the Admiralty," murmured

that high officer of State. "We are up against realities, and Cabinet

etiquette can go hang for me."

The War Minister again read aloud what he had written, signed it

carefully and deliberately, and rising up, handed it to Dawson. "Get

it printed at once and go ahead, Mr. Dawson."

"Captain Dawson, R.M.L.I.," corrected the First Lord, who also rose

and warmly shook hands with the new captain. "You shall be gazetted at

once. I will see the Adjutant-General myself and give orders to

Chatham."

"You have both made up your minds?" inquired the Prime Minister.

"Quite," said the War Secretary. The First Lord nodded.

"Very good," replied the Prime Minister; "I consent. We must above all

things preserve the unity of the Cabinet in these circumstances of

grave national crisis."

"Clear out, Dawson," whispered the First Lord.

Dawson cleared out.

CHAPTER XVI

DAWSON STRIKES

It was a little past noon, and Dawson had much work to do before he

could be free to speed north by the midnight train. First he skipped

across to the Yard and into the private room of his firm friend the

Chief. To him he showed the potent proclamation and recounted the

methods of its extraction. "I thought that I was in a company of

jackals," said he at the end; "but I was wrong--two of them were

lions."

"We should be in a bad way if there were no lions," commented the

Chief. "Those two, and another who is dead, saved South Africa; there

are one or two more, but not many. What shall you do with this?"

"We will set it up on our own private press, and run off a couple of

hundred placards. The secret must not leak out; I am playing for

surprises."

The Chief struck a bell, the order was given, and Dawson's priceless

proclamation vanished into the lower regions.

"Now?" inquired the Chief.

"Chatham," explained Dawson, "to pick up my men--and to get my

uniform." When telling the story, Dawson again and again described to

me his uniform, with which I happened by family association to be

intimately acquainted. He did not spare me a badge or a button. I am

convinced that no girl wore her first ball-dress with half the

palpitating pride with which Dawson surveyed himself in his captain's

kit. When I chaffed him gently, and hinted that the stars of a captain

were cheaply come by in these days, he had one retort always ready,

"Not in the Red Marines." He did not value his office of Chief

Detective Inspector a rap beside that temporary rank of Captain of Red

Marines. He had, you see, been a private in that proud exclusive

Corps, and its glory for him outshone all human glories.

He flew away to Chatham as fast as a deliberate railway service

permitted, and found upon arrival that an urgent telegram from the

Adjutant-General had preceded him. Dawson was shown at once to the

Commandant's quarters, and there explained his requirements. "Eighty

men, two sergeants, and a regular lieutenant. Not one of less than

five years' service. Also a sea-service kit with a captain's stars for

me. The mess-sergeant will fit me out. He trades in second-hand

uniforms."

"You have the advantage of me, Mr. Dawson," said the Commandant,

smiling, "in your profound knowledge of the functions of a mess

sergeant."

"I was a recruit here, sir, when you were a second lieutenant. I know

the by-ways of Chatham and the perquisites of mess-sergeants. I was a

sergeant myself once."

"I remember you, Dawson," said the Commandant kindly, "and am proud to

see one of us become so great a man. By the regulations a temporary

officer should wear khaki."

"No khaki for me, sir, please," implored Dawson. "I should not feel

that I belonged to the old Corps in khaki. In my time it was the red

parade tunic or the sea-service blue."

"Wear any kit you please. This is your day, not mine. I have been

ordered to place myself and all Chatham at your disposal, though what

your particular game is I have not a notion. I won't ask any questions

now, but please come and dine with me in mess when you return, and let

me have the whole story."

"I will, sir," cried Dawson heartily, "and thank you very much. I have

waited at the mess, but never dined with it The old Corps is going

with me to do a pretty bit of work, different from anything that it

has ever done before."

"That would not be easy; we have been in every scrap on land or sea

since the year dot."

Dawson looked round carefully, and then whispered, "Those eighty

Marines of mine are going to cut off a snake's head and stop a bloody

revolution. They've done that sort of thing many times at the ends of

the earth, but never, I believe, in England."

"I wish that I were again a lieutenant," growled the Commandant, "for

then I would volunteer to come with you."

"You shall choose my second-in-command yourself, sir," conceded Dawson

handsomely.

Captain Dawson chose his men with discrimination. All those above five

years' service were paraded in the barrack square, and Dawson,

assisted by the Commandant, to whom his men were as his own children,

picked out the eighty lucky ones at leisure. Those who were rejected

shrugged their stiff square shoulders and predicted disaster for the

expedition. In one small detail Dawson changed his plans. He had

intended to take two sergeants only, but in Chatham there were four

who had served with him in the ranks, and he could not withstand their

pleadings. When all was settled, Dawson went to the Commandant's

quarters to be introduced to his second-in-command, and surprised

there that officer endeavouring to squeeze his rather middle-aged

figure within the buttoned limits of a subaltern's tunic. Since the

senior officers of Marines never go to sea, the Commandant's own

official uniform was the field-service khaki of a Staff officer. "It

is all right," explained he, laughing. "I have become a lieutenant

again, and am going north with you. But I wish that your friend the

mess-sergeant had a pattern B tunic which would meet round my middle.

My young men must be devilish slim nowadays. I have been on to the

A.-G. by 'phone. He pretends to be derisory, but I am convinced that

really he is desperately jealous. He would love to go too. You seem,

my good Dawson, to have stirred up Whitehall and Spring Gardens in a

manner most emphatic."

"But you can't serve under me, sir," cried Dawson, aghast.

"Can't I!" retorted the new Lieutenant. "If admirals can joyfully go

afloat as lieut.-commanders, as lots of them are doing, what is to

prevent a Colonel of Marines serving as a subaltern? I am on this job

with you, Dawson, if you will have me."

"With four sergeants and eighty Marines," said Dawson slowly, "you and

I could have held Mons."

"We could that," cried the Colonel-Lieutenant, who had by now

completed the reduction of his rank to that of Captain Dawson's

subordinate. "Nothing, nothing, is beyond the powers of the Sea

Regiment!"

At about 11.30 that night the wide roof of St. Pancras echoed to the

disciplined tramp of Dawson's detachment, which marched straight to

coaches reserved by order from Headquarters. "Marines don't talk,"

said Dawson, "but I am not taking risks. I don't want to sully the

virtue of my old Sea Pongos by mixing them up with raw land Tommies."

Dawson and his subaltern were moving towards the sleeping-coach in

which a double berth had been assigned to them, when two tall

gentlemen in civilian dress slipped out of the crowd and stood in

their path. Dawson, at the sight of them, glowed with pride, his chest

swelled out under his broad blue tunic, and his hand flew to the peak

of his red-banded cap. The Colonel-Lieutenant gasped. "Good luck,

Dawson," whispered the bigger of the strangers; "I would give my baton

to be going north with you."

"Colonel ---- has given up his crowns," replied Dawson, as he

introduced his companion.

The Field-Marshal smiled and shook hands with the sporting Commandant.

"This is all frightfully irregular," said he, "but I sympathise.

Still, if I know our friend Dawson here, there won't be any fighting.

You have no idea of his skill as a diplomatist. He tells the truth,

which is so unusual and startling that the effect is overwhelming. He

is a heavy human howitzer. I envy you, Colonel."

"I have not a notion what we are to be at," said the Colonel.

"I am not very clear myself. It is Dawson's picnic, not ours, and we

have given him a free hand. You won't get any fighting, but there will

be lots of fun."

Meanwhile the First Lord had drawn Dawson to one side. "Good luck,

Captain Dawson; you have not wasted any time, and I have the best of

hopes. We had a beautiful row after you left us this morning. It did

my poor heart good. The P.M. declares that if you put martial law into

force, he will hand in his checks to the King. So, my poor friend, you

carry with you a mighty responsibility. But stick it out, don't

hesitate to follow your judgment, and wire me how you get on."

"Don't worry, sir," said Dawson, "I shall not fail. If it had not been

for you and his lordship here, I should not have had this great

chance. I won't let you down."

"Sh!" whispered the other. "Not so loud. We are conspirators, strictly

incog., dressed in the shabbiest of clothes. We had to see you off,

for I enjoyed the tussle of this morning beyond words. I would not for

anything have missed the P.M.'s face when he found himself driven to

act suddenly and definitely. I am eternally your debtor, Captain

Dawson of the Red Marines."

"My word," exclaimed the Colonel-Lieutenant, when the visitors had

slipped away like a couple of stage villains, with soft hats pulled

down over their eyes--"the Field-Marshal and the First Lord! You have

some friends, sir."

"I am only a ranker," said Dawson humbly, "with very temporary stars;

not a pukka officer and gentleman like you. I hope that you do not

mind sharing' a sleeper with me?"

"I should be proud to share with you the measliest dug-out in a

Flanders graveyard," replied the Colonel emphatically. The two

officers, so anomalously associated, entered their berth the best of

friends and talked together far into the night. And as they talked,

the Colonel, now a Lieutenant, made the same discovery which had

startled Dawson's two powerful supporters of the morning. In the

police officer, rough, half-educated, vain, tender of heart, he also

had discovered a Man. "But for me and my Red Marines," said Dawson, as

they turned in for some broken sleep, "those poor fools up yonder

would get themselves shot in the streets. But I shall save them, and

in saving them I shall save the country."

* * * * *

It was the afternoon of the following day, just twenty-four hours

after Dawson had commandeered the resources of Chatham, and the scene

was a public hall in a big industrial city. In the body of the room

sat two hundred and thirty-four men--shop stewards and district trade

union officials--and their faces were gloomy and anxious. They had

come for a last meeting with the officers of the Munitions Dept, and

to declare that the men whom they represented were resolved not to

permit of any further dilution of labour. The great majority of them

were not unpatriotic, their sons and brothers and friends had joined

the Forces, and had already fought and died gallantly, but they were

intensely suspicious. To them the "employer," the "capitalist," was a

greater, because more enduring and insidious, enemy than the Germans.

Dilution of labour had become in their eyes a device for destroying

all their hardly won privileges and restrictions, and for delivering

them bound and helpless to their "capitalist oppressers." To this

sorry pass had the perpetual disputes of peace brought the workmen

under stress of war! Rates of pay did not enter into the

dispute--never in their lives had they earned such wages--its origin

led in a queer perverted sense of loyalty to the trade unions, and to

those members who had gone forth to fight. "What will our folks say,"

asked the men of one another, "when they come home from the war, if we

have given away in their absence all that they fought for during long

years?" When it was attempted to make clear that the lives of their

own sons in the trenches were being made more hazardous by their

obstinacy, they shook their heads and simply did not believe. "We can

make all the guns and the shells that are wanted without giving up our

rules. We value our sons' lives as much as you do. We love our country

as much as you do. The capitalists are using a plea of patriotism to

get the better of us." It was a pitiful deadlock--honest for the most

part; yet it was a deadlock which, as Dawson said, brought very near

the day when English artillery would be firing shotted guns in English

streets.

At a small table on a low platform at one end of the room sat three

civilians, and a few feet away, sitting a little back, was an officer

whose uniform and badges attracted the eyes of the curious. None of

the workmen knew this brown-skinned man with the small, dark moustache

who looked so very professional a soldier, yet Dawson knew them, every

man of them, and had moved among them in their works many times. Ten

of those present were actually his own agents, working among their

fellow unionists and agitating with them--hidden sources of

information and of influence at need--and yet not one of those ten

knew that the Marine Captain upon the platform was his own official

chief. The chairman rose to speak to the men for the last time, and

Dawson sat listening and studying a small slip of paper in his hand.

The chairman said nothing that the men had not been told many times

during the past few days, but there was in his speech a note of solemn

appeal and warning which was new. The hearers shuffled their feet

uneasily, for most of them felt uneasy; they were, as I have said,

most of them honest men. But when the chairman had sat down, and the

men began, one after another, to reply, it appeared at once that there

was present an element not honest, even seditious. Dawson smiled to

himself, and studied his slip of paper, for the snake, whose head he

had come to cut off, was beginning to rear itself before him. Hints

began to appear that there was a strong minority at least which was

unwilling both to fight and to work for a country which was none of

theirs--"What has this country done for us that we should bleed and

sweat for it? It has starved us and sweated us to make profits out of

us, and now in its extremity slobbers us with fair words." At last one

man rose, a thin-faced, wild-eyed man, who, under happier conditions,

might have been a preacher or a writer, and delivered a speech which

was rankly seditious. "The workers," he declared, "are being shackled,

gagged, and robbed. Our enemy is not the German Kaiser. Our enemy

consists of that small, cunning, treacherous, well-organised, and

highly respectable section of the community who, by means of the money

power, compels the workers to sweat in order that their bellies may be

full and their fine ladies gowned in gorgeous raiment. They pass a

Munitions Act to chain the worker to his master. They 'dilute' labour

to call into being an invisible army which can be mobilised at short

notice to defeat the struggles of striking artisans. The attack of the

masters must be resisted. The workers must fight. There is a

fascinating attraction in the idea of meeting force with force,

violence with violence. It is undeniable that many of the more

thoughtful among the toilers would consider that their lives had not

been spent in vain if they organised their comrades to drilled and

armed rebellion."

The speaker paused. He was encouraged by a few cheers, but the mass of

his hearers were silent. He glanced at Dawson, whose face was set in

an expressionless mask. Cheers came again, and he went on, but with

less assurance. "The worker's labour power is his only wealth. It is

also his highest weapon. But the workers need not think of using this

weapon so long as they are split and divided into sects and groups and

crafts. To be effective they must organise as workers. An organisation

that would include all the workers, skilled and unskilled, throughout

the entire country, would prove irresistible. But as matters stand at

present I do not advocate armed rebellion. I advocate and herewith

proclaim a general strike."

He sat down, and there was a long silence. The die had been cast. If

the meeting broke up without the emphatic assertion of the

Government's authority, then a general strike upon the morrow was as

certain as that the sun would rise. It was for this moment, this

intensely critical moment, that Dawson had worked and fought in

London, and for which he was now ready. The chairman sighed and wiped

his face, which had become clammy. He looked at Dawson, who nodded

slightly, and then rose.

"I call," said he solemnly, "upon Captain Dawson. He is now in supreme

authority."

Dawson sprang to his feet, alert, decided, and picked up a large roll

of papers which had rested behind him upon his chair. He placed the

roll upon the table and faced the audience, who knew at once, with the

rapid instinct of a crowd, that the unexpected was about to happen.

Dawson pulled down his tunic, settled himself comfortably into his Sam

Browne belt, and rested his left hand upon the hilt of his sword.--It

was a pretty artistic touch, the wearing of that sword, and exactly

characteristic of Dawson's methods. I laughed when he told me of

it.--There were two doors to the room--one upon Dawson's left hand,

the other at the far end behind the workmen. He raised his right hand,

and the chairman, who was watching him, pressed an electric bell. Then

events began to happen.

The doors flew open, and through each of them filed a line of smart

men in blue, equipped with rifles and side arms. Twenty men and a

sergeant passed through each door, which was then closed. The ranks of

each detachment were dressed as if on parade, and when all were ready,

Dawson gave a sharp order. Instantly forty-two rifle-butts clashed as

one upon the floor, and the Marines stood at ease. At this moment the

door at the far end might have been seen to open, and an officer to

slip in who, though white of hair, had not apparently reached a higher

rank than that of lieutenant. "It was all very fine, Dawson," he

explained afterwards, "your plan of leaving me outside with the rest

of the Marines, but it wasn't good enough. I didn't come north to be

buried in the reserves."

"You should have obeyed orders," replied Dawson severely.

"I should," cheerfully assented the Colonel-Commandant of Chatham,

"but somehow I didn't."

While Dawson's body-guard of Marines was getting into position before

the doors, the workmen, surprised and trapped, were on their feet

chattering and gesticulating. The unfamiliar appearance of the

blue-uniformed men, not one of whom was less than five feet nine

inches in height, their well-set-up figures and stolid professional

faces, gave a business-like, even ominous flavour to the proceedings

which chilled the strike leaders to the bone. They would have cheered

an irruption of kilted recruits in khaki tunics as the coming of old

friends, and would have felt no more than local patriotic hostility

towards a detachment of English or Irish soldiers. But these blue men

of the Sea Regiment, an integral part of the great mysterious silent

Navy, had no part or lot with British workmen "rightly struggling to

be free." They represented some outside authority, some potent,

overpowering authority, as no khaki-clad soldiers could have

represented it. The surprise was complete, the moral effect was

staggering, and Dawson, who had counted upon both when he brought his

Marines north, smiled contentedly to himself. He stepped forward, with

that little slip of paper in his hand, and began to read from it. One

by one he read out twenty-three names, the very first being that of

the man who had made the speech which I have reported.

As name after name dropped from Dawson's lips, the wonder and terror

grew. Who was this strange officer who could thus surely divide the

goats from the sheep, who was picking out one after another the

self-seekers and fomenters of sedition, who, while he omitted none who

were really dangerous, yet included none who were honest though

mistaken? As the list drew towards its end, quite half the listeners

were smiling broadly. They could not have drawn up a more perfect one

themselves, and they did not love most of those whose names were found

upon it.

"Now," said Dawson, when he had finished, "I must ask all those

gentlemen to step forward." Not a man moved. "Let me warn you that

every man whose name I have read out is personally known to me. If I

have to come and fetch you, I shall not come alone." There was still

some hesitation, and then those upon the proscribed list began to move

forward. They would willingly have hidden themselves, had that been

possible, but to be known and to be dragged out by those hard-faced

Marines would have added humiliation to terror. They came forth, until

all the twenty-three were ranged up before Dawson. Then the man, whose

name was first upon the list, rasped out, "What is your authority for

this outrage upon a peaceful meeting? I demand your authority."

"You shall have it," serenely replied Dawson. And, going up to the

pile of papers which he had laid upon the table, he drew one forth and

held it up so that all might see. It was a large placard, boldly

printed, a proclamation in cold, terse language of Martial Law, signed

by the Secretary for War himself.

"Martial Law! This is sheer militarism," cried the first of those

arrested.

"For you and for these other twenty-two upon my list it is Martial

Law," replied Dawson. "But for the rest it will be as they choose

themselves. Sergeant, remove the prisoners." A sergeant stepped out,

the line of Marines before the door divided, and the prisoners were

led away. Dawson put the proclamation back upon the table, squared his

shoulders, and turned towards his audience, now silent, subdued, and

purged. His plans were working very well.

"I am no speaker," he began; "I am a man of the people, one of

yourselves. I have made my own way, and though I wear the uniform and

stars of a Captain of Marines, I am really an officer of police, Chief

Detective Inspector Dawson of Scotland Yard." He paused to allow time

for this astonishing fact to sink in. So that was why he had known the

names and faces of all the ring-leaders of sedition! And if he knew so

much, what more might he not know! Even the most innocent among his

audience began to feel loose about the neck.

"I know you all," he went on. "There is not a man among you whom I do

not know. You--or you--or you." He addressed those near to him by

name. "We sympathise with you and have reasoned with you. But you

proved obdurate. The King's Government must be carried on; the war

must be carried on if our country is to be saved. And those who have

given power to me--the power which you have seen set out upon these

papers, the powers of Martial Law--will exercise them unflinchingly if

there appears to be no other way. But there is another and a better

way. You must obey the laws which Parliament has passed for the

defence of the country and for the provision of munitions. Your rights

are protected under them. After the war is over, your privileges will

be restored. For the present they must be abandoned. Willingly or

unwillingly they must be abandoned. I said just now that it is for you

to choose whether Martial Law shall take effect or not. The moment

those placards are posted in the streets the military authorities

become supreme, but they will not be posted if you have the sense to

see when you are beaten. What I have to ask, to require of you, is

that to-morrow, at the mass meeting of the men which is to be held,

you will advise them to surrender unconditionally, to work hard

themselves, and to allow all others to work hard. There must be no

more holding up of essential parts of guns, no more writing and

talking sedition. Our country needs the whole-hearted service of us

all. If you here and now give me your promise that you will use every

effort--no perfunctory, but real effort--to stop at once all these

threats of a strike, I will let you go now and wish you God-speed. If

you fail, then Martial Law will be proclaimed forthwith. Make this

very clear to the men. Tell them that you have seen the proclamation,

signed by the Field-Marshal himself, and that I, Captain and Chief

Inspector Dawson, will post the placards in the streets with my own

hands. If you will not give me your promise--I do not ask for any

hostages or security, just your promise as loyal, honourable men--I

shall arrest you all here and now, and deport you all just as those

twenty-three have been arrested and will be deported. You will not see

those men for a long time; you know in your hearts that you are well

quit of them. If I arrest you all, I shall not stop my arrests at that

point. There are many others--many who are not workmen from whom has

come money for your strike funds and to offer bail when arrests have

been made. I shall pick them all up. Nothing that you can now do will

affect the fate of those who have been taken from this room. Whatever

loyalty you may owe to them has been discharged, and I will give you a

quittance. Their chapter has been closed. What you have to consider

now is the fate of yourselves and of many beside yourselves, of all

those who look to you for advice and guidance. Take time, talk among

yourselves, consult one another. I am not here to hurry you unduly,

but before you are allowed to leave this room there must be a complete

and final settlement."

He sat down. The men split into groups, and the buzz of talk ran

through the room. There was no anger or excitement, but much

bewilderment. They had come to the meeting as masters, strong in

numbers, to dictate terms, yet now the tables had been turned

dramatically upon them. No longer masters, they were in the presence

of a Force which at a word from Dawson could hale them forth as

prisoners to be dealt with under the mysterious shuddering powers of

Martial Law. They thought of those twenty-three, a few minutes since

so potent for mischief, now bound and helpless in the hands of the

Blue Men from the Sea.

At last an elderly grey-locked man stepped forward, and Dawson rose to

meet him. "We admit, sir," said he, "that you have us at a

disadvantage. We did not expect this Proclamation nor those Marines of

yours. We did not believe that the Government meant business. We

thought that we should have more talk, talk, and we are all sick of

talk. We are true patriots here--you have taken away all those who

cared nothing for their country--and we feel that if you are prepared

to use Martial Law and the forces of the Crown against us, that you

must be very much in earnest. We feel that you would not do these

terrible things unless the need were very urgent. We do not agree that

the need is urgent, but if you, representing the Government, say that

it is, we have no course open to us but to submit. If we now surrender

unconditionally and promise heartily to use every effort to bring the

mass of the men to our views, will you in your turn give us your

personal assurance that all our legitimate grievances will be fully

considered, and that every effort will be made to meet them? You may

crush us, sir, but you will not get good work from men whose spirit

has been broken."

"I cannot make conditions," replied Dawson gently, "but ask yourselves

why I brought my Marines all the way from Chatham to deal with this

meeting? Was it not that I would not put upon you the pain and

humiliation of arrest at the hands of your own sons and brothers?

Though I stand here with gold stars on my shoulders I am one of you.

My father worked all his life in the dockyard at Portsmouth, and I

myself as a boy have been a holder-on in a black squad of riveters. I

can make no conditions, but if you will leave yourself entirely in my

hands, and in those of my superiors, you may be assured that there

will be no attempt made to crush you, to break your spirit."

As he said these words an inspiration came to him, and by sure

instinct he acted upon it. Jumping down from the platform, he

approached the old sad-faced spokesman, and shook him hard by the

hand. Then he moved along among the other workmen, addressing them by

name, chatting to them of their work and private interests, and

showing so complete and human a regard for them that their hostility

melted away before him. This man, who had conquered them, was one of

themselves, a "tradesman" like them, one of the Black Squad of

Portsmouth, a fellow-worker. He was no tool of the hated "capitalist."

If he said that they must all go back to work unconditionally, well

they must go. But he was their friend, and would see justice done

them. Presently Dawson was handing out cigarettes--of which he had

brought a large supply in his pockets, Woodbines--and the meeting, of

which so much was feared, had apparently turned into, a happy

conversazione. For half an hour Dawson pursued his campaign of

personal conciliation, and then went back to his place upon the

platform.

"Go in peace," he cried. "Come again to-morrow afternoon and tell me

about the mass meeting. There will be more cigarettes awaiting you,

and even, possibly, a bottle or two of whisky."

The men laughed, and one wag called out, "Three cheers for holder-on

Dawson." The cheers were given heartily, the Marines stood aside from

the doors, and the room rapidly emptied. The officials of the

Munitions Department and the Colonel, who was Dawson's insubordinate

subaltern, crowded round him spouting congratulations. He soaked in

their flatteries as was his habit, and then delivered a lesson upon

the management of men which should be printed in letters of gold. "Men

are just grown-up children," said he, "and should be treated as

children. Be always just, praise them when they are good, and smack

them when they are naughty. But if when they are naughty you spare the

rod and try to slobber them with fine words, they will despise you

utterly, and become upon the instant naughtier than ever."

"What about that mass meeting to-morrow?" asked the Colonel.

"I shall not be there, but ten of my men will be. Have no fears of the

mass meeting. The snake's head is off--by to-morrow it will be two

hundred miles away--and though the body may wriggle, it will be quite

harmless. After two or three hours of talk and vain threats the

meeting will collapse, and we shall get unconditional surrender."

And so it happened. The talk went on for four solid hours--vain,

vapouring talk, during which steam was blown off. At the end the

surrender, as Dawson predicted, was unconditional.

That evening of the morrow a telegram sped away over the long wires to

the south addressed to the Secretary of the Admiralty.

"Please tell First Lord that the snake is dead. I am returning the

Marines carriage-paid and undamaged. My commission as a Captain is no

longer required. Dawson."

Back flashed a reply from the Minister himself: "To Captain Dawson,

R.M.L.I. Adjutant-General insists that you retain rank and pay until

the end of the war. So do I. You have done a wonderful piece of work

for which you will be adequately punished in official quarters. But

you will suffer in good company."

Though Dawson thus became entitled to call himself Captain for the

duration of the war, he never used the rank or the uniform again. Once

more, to my knowledge, he served in his well-beloved Corps, but it was

then not as Captain, but as private, during his long watch in the

_Malplaquet_, of which I have told the story earlier in this book.

CHAPTER XVII

DAWSON TELEPHONES FOR A SURGEON

I have never been able to plan this book upon any system which would

hold together for half a dozen consecutive chapters. I am the victim

of my characters who come and go and pull me with them tied to their

chariot wheels. When I wrote the first story of the "Lost Naval

Papers"--which, by the way, were not lost at all--I had not made the

personal acquaintance of William Dawson. When I wrote of my own

encounters with Dawson and of my share, a humble share, in his

researches, my dear Madame Gilbert had not met me and subdued me into

a drivelling worship of her shining personality. While I was amusing

myself trying to convey to the reader the frolicsome atmosphere which

Madame carries about with her and in which she hides the workings of

her big heart and brain, I was ignorant of the adventures of the two

battle-cruisers and of Dawson's encounter with the War Committee, and

of his triumph over the revolting workmen of the north. I have

therefore written, as it were, from hand to mouth, more as one who

keeps a vagabond diary than as one who consciously plans a work of

art. It is as a diary of personal experiences that this book should be

regarded. It has no merit of constructive skill, for I have never

known what the future would yield to me of material. When Dawson

parted with me to return south to the Yard, and to his deserted family

in Acacia Villas, Primrose Road, Tooting, I did not expect to see him

again for months, possibly years. But a turn came to the wheel of my

destiny as it had done to his. I also was plucked from my northern

place of exile and transported joyfully to the south country, whither

I have always fled whenever for a few days or weeks I could loosen the

bonds which tied me to the north. Now that those bonds have fallen

entirely from me, and I am back in my southern home--whether for good

or for evil rests upon the lap of the high gods--I have been able

unexpectedly to resume contact with Dawson and to bring this,

discursive book to some kind of a conclusion. It cannot really end so

long as Dawson and Froissart and Madame Gilbert live and remain in

friendly association with me. They have become parts of my life, and

if I have not outraged their feelings beyond forgiveness by what I

have written of them, I have hopes that I shall meet all of them often

in the future and that they will tell me many more stories of their

exploits.

* * * * *

As soon as I had settled myself in London I took the earliest

opportunity of calling upon Dawson at the Yard. He was absent, but his

Deputy, who knew my name, received me kindly. He explained that it

would not be easy to find Dawson. "We never know where he is or what

he is doing. I suppose that the Chief knows; certainly no one else.

How can one be Deputy to a man who never tells one what he is doing or

where he may be found?" I agreed that the post seemed difficult to

fill adequately. "I wish I could chuck it as Froissart did when he

went back to Paris. Have you ever seen Madame Gilbert?" he inquired

eagerly. I observed that Madame did me the honour to be my friend. "So

you know her, do you? She's a clinker of a woman. Hot stuff, but a

real genuine clinker. She could do what she pleased with old man

Dawson; make him fetch and carry like a poodle. She's the only woman

born who ever turned Dawson round her fingers." I observed rather

stiffly that Madame Gilbert was a lady for whom I had a very high

regard, and that the expression "Hot stuff" was hardly respectful.

"Hum!" said the Deputy, eyeing me with interest. "So she has made a

fool of you like she has of the rest of us. Even the Chief gets down

on his rheumaticky old knees and kisses the carpet of his room after

she has trodden on it."

The Deputy tended to become garrulous, and I cut him short with an

inquiry for Dawson's exact address. He lived in Acacia Villas, but I

was without the precise number. The Deputy told me, and promised to

inform Dawson of my visit at the earliest moment. "It may be to-day,

or next week, or next month. It may not be till the War is over"--an

expression which has come into colloquial use as a synonym for the

Greek Kalends. I thanked the officer, and withdrew somewhat annoyed.

It appeared that Dawson was not far away, for a letter from him

reached me two days later at my club. It was an invitation to visit

his home and to dine with him on the following Sunday at one o'clock.

Enclosed was a plan designed to assist me in penetrating the mazes of

Tooting. That Sunday was a beautiful day in May, and I wandered down

with plenty of time to spare to provide against the danger of being

"bushed." But with the aid of Dawson's thoughtful plan I found

Primrose Road without difficulty. The hour was then 12.15, and the

house deserted. Dawson and his family were at chapel. I had forgotten

what I had heard months before of Dawson's fervour as a preacher upon

Truth until reminded of it by a constable whose beat passed the house.

"If you are looking for Chief Detective Inspector Dawson," said he, "I

can show you where to find him in chapel. He will be holding forth

just now." The opportunity of seeing Dawson as he really was--known

certainly only to his wife and to God--and of seeing him as a

preacher, spurred me into active interest. "My relief is coming now,"

said the constable; "as soon as I have handed over I will show you the

way."

As we walked together the policeman revealed to me the admiration

inspired by Dawson in his humble subordinates. "There is nothing that

man can't do," said he. "He is a skilled mechanic, a soldier--some say

he has a general's uniform hid away in his house--an electrical

engineer, and a telegraph operator. He has been all over the world in

the Royal Navy, and could if he liked be commanding a ship now. He's

the friend of Ministers and Secretaries of State. He's the best

detective that the Yard ever knew, and he preaches to folk here

like--like the Archangel Gabriel come to trot 'em off to Hell. I'm a

Wesleyan, myself, but I often go to hear the Chief Inspector. He makes

one come out in a cold sweat, and gives a man a fine appetite for

dinner. He shakes you up so that you feel empty," he explained.

I observed that if Dawson were so great a stimulus upon appetite, he

would not be popular with the Food Controller. The policeman, though

he had heard of the Food Controller, was unconscious of his many

activities, which shows how little the world knows of its greatest

men. It also suggests that police constables do not read newspapers.

The chapel was a building illustrative of the straight line and plane.

It was fairly large, and so full that the crowd of worshippers bulged

out of the doors. Though we could not force our way inside, we could

hear the booming of a voice which was scarcely recognisable as that of

Dawson. Waves of emotion ran so strongly through the congregation that

we could feel them beat against the fringes by the doors. "The Chief

Inspector is on his game to-day," whispered the constable. "He's

hitting them fine." From which I judged that the constable had in his

youth come from the north, where golf is cheap. It was a

disappointment that I could not get in, but perhaps well for the

reader. The temptation to record a genuine sermon by Dawson might have

proved too much for me. Presently the voice ceased to boom, the

congregation squeezed out hot and oily, like grease from a full

barrel, and I waited for Dawson to appear. "Don't speak to him now,"

directed my guide. "Let him get up to his house. He can't talk for

half an hour after holding forth; there's not a word bad or good left

in his carcase."

After all the worshippers had gone there issued forth a party of

three: a man, a woman, and a little girl. "There he is," said the

constable, nudging me. "Who?" asked I. "The Chief Inspector. There he

is with Mrs. Dawson and their little girl." I stared and stared, but

failed to recognise my friend of the north. I was too far away to see

his ears, and his face was quite strange to me.

"I hope," I whispered primly to the constable, "that Mrs. Dawson is

sure he is her husband."

"She ought to be. Aren't you sure?"

"Not yet; I am not near enough to see properly. That Dawson, is not a

bit like those others whom I know."

"That Dawson! Those others! Is there more than one Chief Inspector

Dawson?" asked the man, wondering.

"I should say about a hundred," replied I, and left him gasping. I

fear that he now thinks that either I am quite mad or that Mrs. Dawson

is a pluralist in husbands.

I gave the Dawson family sufficient time to reach their home, and to

recover the power of speech, and then walked gravely to the door as if

I had just arrived. One becomes contagiously deceptive in the vicinity

of Dawson.

The stranger, who was the real undisguised Dawson, welcomed me to his

home. The house was a small one and the family kept no servant. I do

not know what income the Chief Inspector draws from the Yard, but am

sure that it is absurdly inadequate to his services. The higher one

rises, the less work one does and the more pay one gets--provided that

one begins more than half-way up the ladder. For those like Dawson who

begin quite at the bottom, the rule seems to be inverted: the more

work one does, the less pay one gets. I should judge my own ill-gotten

income at twice or three times that of Dawson--which even that

cautious judge, Euclid, would declare to be absurd.

He led me to the parlour, which was well and tastefully

furnished--Dawson has seen good houses--and we waited there while Mrs.

Dawson dished up the dinner. "Please sit there, Dawson, facing the

light," said I. "Let me have a good look at you." He complied smiling,

and I examined his features with grave attention. Dawson, the real

Dawson as I now saw him for the first time, is a very fair man. His

pale sandy hair can readily be bleached white or dyed a dark colour.

He uses quick dyes which can be removed with appropriate chemicals.

His hair and moustache, he told me, grow very quickly. His complexion,

like his hair, is almost white, and his skin curiously opaque. His

blood is red and healthy, but it does not show through. His skin and

hair are like the canvas of a painter, always ready to receive

pigments and ready also to give them up when treated with skill. I

began to understand how Dawson can make to himself a face and

appearance of almost any habit or age. He can be fair or dark, dark or

fair, old or young, young or old, at will. He carries the employment

of rubber and wax insets very far indeed. His nose, his cheeks, his

mouth, his chin may be forced by internal packing to take to

themselves any shape. I made a hasty calculation that he can change

his appearance in seven hundred and twenty different ways. "So many as

that?" said Dawson, surprised when I told him. "I don't think that I

have gone beyond sixty." I assured him that on strict mathematical

principles I had arrived at the limiting number, and it gave him

pleasure to feel that so many untried permutations of countenance

remained to him. In actual everyday practice there are rarely more

than six Dawsons in being at the same time. He finds that number

sufficient for all useful purposes; a greater number, he says, would

excessively strain his memory. He has, you see, always to remember

which Dawson he is at any moment. When he was pulling my leg, or that

of his brave enemy Froissart, the number multiplied greatly, but, as a

working business rule, he is modestly content with six. "I suppose," I

asked, "that here in Acacia Villas you are always the genuine

article."

"Always," he declared with emphasis. "Once," he went on, "I tried to

play a game on Emma. I came home as one of the others, forced my way

into the house, and was clouted over the head and chucked into the

street. When I got back to the Yard to alter myself--for I had left my

tools there--Emma had been telephoning to me to get the wicked

stranger arrested for house-breaking. I never tried any more games;

women have no sense of humour." He shuddered. Dawson is afraid of his

wife, and I pictured to myself a great haughty woman with the figure

and arms of a Juno.

But when Clara--who asked kindly after my little Jane--had summoned us

to the dining-room, I was presented to a small, quiet mouse of a woman

whose head reached no higher than Dawson's heart. This was the

redoubtable Emma! "Did she really clout you over the head and chuck

you into the street?" I whispered. "She did, sir!" he replied,

smiling. "She threw me yards over my own doorstep."

Between Dawson and his little wife there is a very tender affection.

In her eyes he is not a police officer, but an inspired preacher. She

knows nothing of his professional triumphs, and would not care to

know. She, I am very sure, will never trouble to read this book. To

her he is the lover of her youth, the most tender of husbands, and a

Boanerges who spends his Sabbaths dragging fellow-creatures from the

Pit. The God of Dawson and of his Emma is a pitiless giant with a

pitchfork, busily thrusting his creatures towards eternal torment;

Dawson, in Emma's eyes, is an intrepid salvor with a boat-hook who

once a week arduously pulls them out. Dawson married Emma when he was

a sergeant of Marines, and I think that he has shown to her his

uniform with the three captain's stars. To me she always spoke of him

as "the Captain," though I could not be quite sure whether she meant a

Captain of Marines or a Captain in the Army of Salvation. Dawson, his

Emma, and Clara are very happy, very united, and I am glad that I saw

them in their own home. I am helped to understand how tender is the

heart which beats under Dawson's assumed cloak of professional

ruthlessness. At first I wholly misjudged him, but I will not now

alter what I then wrote. My readers will learn to know their Dawson as

I learned myself.

Whenever in the future I wish to hear from Dawson of his exploits I

shall not seek him at his own house. He is an artist who is highly

sensitive to atmosphere. In Acacia Villas the police officer fades to

shadowy insignificance, even in his own mind. Then, he is a husband, a

father, and a mighty preacher. He will talk of his disguises, and in

general terms of his work, but there is no fiery enthusiasm for

manhunting when Dawson gets home to Tooting. I shall seek him at the

Yard, or upon the hot trail; then and then only shall I get from him

the full flavour of his genius for detection. Dawson, away from home,

is so vain as to be unconscious of his vanity; Dawson at home is quite

extraordinarily modest. He defers always to the opinion of Emma, and

she, gently, kindly, but with an air of infinite superiority, keeps

his wandering steps firmly in the path of truth. He is, I am told, a

most kindling preacher, but it is Emma who inspires his sermons.

Once only during my visit did I see a flash of the old Dawson, the

Dawson of the _Malplaquet_, and of the War Committee, and that was

just before I left. We were in the parlour smoking, and I was getting

rather bored. Conjugal virtue, domestic content and happiness, are

beautiful to look upon for a while, but I confess that in a

remorseless continuous film ("featuring" Dawson and Emma) I find them

boresome. There is little humour about Dawson and none at all about

his dear Emma. I would gladly exchange fifty virtuous Emmas for one

naughty Madame Gilbert. We had been talking idly of our sport together

and of his different incarnations. Suddenly he sprang from his chair

and his pale face lighted up. "Now that I have you here, Mr.

Copplestone, I shall not let you go until you tell me by what trick

you can always see through my disguises. Would you know me now as

Dawson?"

"Of course," said I. "There is no difficulty. If you painted your face

black and your hair vermilion, I should still know you at once."

"You have promised to tell me the secret. Tell me now."

I considered whether I should tell. It was amusing to have some hold

over him, but was it quite fair to Dawson to keep him in ignorance of

those marks of ear by which I could always be certain of his identity.

He had been useful to me, and I had made free with his personality.

Yes, I would tell him, and in a few sentences I told.

He gripped his ears with both hands; he felt those lobes so firmly

secured to his cheekbones, and those blobs of flesh which remained to

him of his wolfish ancestors. He fingered them carefully while he

thought. At last he made up his mind. "It is the Sabbath," said he,

"but when I am on duty I work ever upon the Sabbath day. It is now my

duty to--" He reached for the telephone book, took off the receiver,

and called for a number.

"What are you doing?" I asked, though I ought to have known.

"I am making an appointment with a surgeon," said Dawson.

THE END

End of Project Gutenberg's The Lost Naval Papers, by Bennet Copplestone