AN AVERTED CATASTROPHE
"MORNING, Norton; you are an early visitor," exclaimed Peter
Barcroft. "Five minutes later and you would have found me out--to
use a contradictory phrase. I'm just off for a morning with the
rabbits. Care to come along?"
"Delighted," replied the spy. "I suppose you won't mind my calling
at The Croft to get a gun?"
A couple of weeks had passed since Siegfried von Eitelwurmer's
return to Tarleigh. During that time Peter had seen or heard nothing
of Philip Entwistle. The _soi-disant_ Andrew Norton had resumed his
former habit of dropping in at Ladybird Fold at all hours, somewhat
to the detriment of "The Great Reckoning--and After," which was now
approaching completion.
Von Eitelwurmer was trying to muster up courage to earn
single-handed the reward offered by his Imperial Master for the
obliterance of the man whose writings had so greatly offended the
Potsdam Potentate who was seeking in vain for a place in the Sun.
The spy had a wholesome dread of British justice should he bungle in
the attempt and find himself under arrest. He had been told by the
authorities at Berlin that he must not expect further co-operation
by means of a Zeppelin. Evidently the rough handling the German
aerial squadron had met with on the return journey had upset the
hitherto implicit faith of the Huns in this branch of frightfulness.
Since, then, von Eitelwurmer had no opportunity of getting Peter
Barcroft conveyed to Germany, he set about a means to "remove" him.
After all, he decided, half the reward was better than nothing.
In his many conversations with Peter the spy never mentioned the
subject of their meeting at Bigthorpe; and Barcroft, putting down
his reticence to a fear of being rallied on his mental lapse,
studiously avoided any reference to the event. Nor did von
Eitelwurmer say a word on the subject of the raid. In fact, he had
never discussed the war with the tenant of Ladybird Fold, and had
shown such a casual disinterestedness whenever Peter had touched
upon the matter that the omission to say a word about the Zeppelin's
visit to Barborough occasioned no surprise.
"Haven't you a double-barrel?" inquired Peter as the spy brought out
a twelve-bore single-barrelled sporting gun with a breech action
resembling that of a Martini rifle. "If I had known I could have
lent you one--a hard-hitting choke bore."
"Thanks all the same," replied von Eitelwurmer. "I'm used to this.
I've got in two shots at a running rabbit before to-day. Where are
you making for?"
"Over the moors towards Windyhill," replied Barcroft, signing to the
two dogs to come to heel. "We'll cut through the Dingle Dell. It's a
bit rough going, but we'll save a mile or so."
The Dingle Dell was a narrow valley between two rugged cliffs of
Millstone Grit. Through the defile rushed a foaming mountain stream
fed by the recent rains and now possessing a tremendous volume of
water. Centuries of erosion had worn the rocks that confine the
torrent to its course to a remarkable smoothness, while the water as
it leapt from one level to another had undermined the banks almost
throughout the entire length of the Dingle Dell.
Tarleigh Moors had been experiencing a variety of weather during the
last fortnight. Following the heavy rain came a hard frost that in
turn gave place to the first of the winter snow. Although most of
the white mantle had disappeared, patches of snow still remained in
the sheltered sides of the valleys, while in the Dingle Dell the
trees still retained their seared and yellow leaves.
Crossing a dilapidated wooden bridge the two men ascended a steep
bank, on the top of which ran a narrow path, slippery with the
exposed roots of the abundant trees. On the left the ground dropped
steeply to the foaming stream; on the right was a "cut" or
artificial waterway that supplied power to the neighbouring
bleach-works, the smell of which, hanging about in the dank
atmosphere, was the acknowledged drawback to the sylvan beauties of
the Dingle Dell.
"I haven't been this way before," remarked von Eitelwurmer
untruthfully. He knew the district far better than his companion,
and perhaps his knowledge was equal to that of the majority of the
inhabitants of Tarleigh. It was his business to acquaint himself
with the locality of every place in which his secret service work
had led him. "Shouldn't care to walk along this path on a dark
night, especially after one of your 'night-caps,' Barcroft."
"Yes, it is a sort of 'twixt the devil and the deep sea business,"
rejoined Peter. "Steady!" he added as the spy stumbled over a
protruding root. "Gun's not loaded, I hope?"
"Rather not," replied von Eitelwurmer, pulling down the breech-block
lever and holding up the weapon for his companion's inspection. "I'm
used to a gun, remember."
"You may be," retorted Barcroft grimly, "but these roots are not....
dash it all!"
He sat down heavily, a patch of slippery ground having been
responsible for the mild catastrophe. His cap, falling from his
head, rolled down the bank and finally stopped on the top of a
rounded boulder on either side of which the water swirled furiously.
"The result of moralising," declared Peter. "And I've lost my cap.
Bang goes five and sixpence if I don't recover it."
Resting his gun against a tree, Barcroft descended with considerable
agility till he gained the brink of the torrent. The two dogs,
unused to the sight of their master on his hands and knees, capered
behind him. To his disgust he found that the lost head-gear was just
beyond the reach of his outstretched hand.
He was not going to be done, he reflected stubbornly. By grasping
the stem of a hazel that grew close to the stream he could lean out
further without losing his balance.
The stem seemed stout and supple enough, but unfortunately its looks
belied its actual strength. It parted, and the next instant Peter
was struggling in the foaming torrent.
Flung against the hollowed water-course with a thud that almost
deprived him of the little stock of breath left after his sudden
immersion in the icy water, Barcroft was unable to make an effort to
save himself from being swept over a miniature waterfall. Full six
feet he fell; then, almost blinded by the spray that enveloped his
head, he found himself struggling in a small but powerful eddy,
while the rocks that almost surrounded the pool were too high and
too slippery to afford a hand-grip.
Upon seeing their master topple into the stream Ponto and Nan leapt
in after him, although Peter was then ignorant of the fact. Swimming
ineffectually against the strength of the current both dogs were
swept away, without being able to be of the slightest assistance,
through a portion of the water course which, though only a couple of
feet across at the top, had been worn away to four times that
distance underneath.
Meanwhile Siegfried von Eitelwurmer was stolidly contemplating the
catastrophe. He saw the two animals being swept away, and marked the
semi-subterranean channel. A man carried under those overhanging
rocks stood little chance of escape. Even if Barcroft were able to
resist the remorseless pressure of water that threatened to sweep
him through the contracted gully the numbing effect of the water
would quickly tell. Yet the luckless man maintained silence; not a
cry for assistance came from his lips.
From the path only the tip of Peter's head was visible. The spy
still stood immovable. He had no wish for his unfortunate companion
to witness his apathy. He chuckled with fiendish glee. Fate was
playing into his hands.
Suddenly a maddening thought flashed across his mind. Barcroft
drowned--inquest--verdict: "Accidental Death." Would the German
Government pay the blood-money in these circumstances? He doubted
it. Being a Hun he had no faith in a Hun's interpretation of the
accident.
It was not a sense of duty, the call for heroic action, that spurred
von Eitelwurmer to the rescue. With admirably acted zeal he
descended the declivity, and followed the bank until he reached the
pool in which Peter was still maintaining a precarious foothold.
Grasping the benumbed man's wrists he exerted his full strength in
an attempt to extricate him. The effort was in vain: Barcroft,
encumbered with his saturated clothing and now too exhausted to help
himself, was too heavy to be hauled into safety.
"Run to the works and get assistance," exclaimed Peter, fancying
that his supposed friend was in danger of slipping off the rocks
into the swirling cauldron. "I can hold on some time yet."
Thoroughness was one of the spy's characteristics. Having undertaken
to rescue his companion he was not going to be thwarted if it could
be helped. Glancing around he spotted a stout branch of a tree lying
on the ground. Its length was more than sufficient to bridge the
distance between the projecting sides of the stream.
"Hold on for ten seconds, Barcroft," he exclaimed, and releasing his
hold he made his way to the severed branch and secured it.
"Hang on!" he said, at the same time lifting Peter sufficiently to
enable him to grip the span of wood. Then, pulling off his woollen
scarf, he leant over the edge and passed it round Barcroft's waist,
slackening the "bight" until it sank low enough to go round his
companion's knees.
"Now," he continued, "together!"
With a steady heave von Eitelwurmer raised Peter's legs until his
feet were fairly over the edge of the bank, while his head and body
supported by the suspended branch were still hanging over the
stream. So far so good. The German's next step was to shift the
scarf until it formed a loop round Barcroft's shoulders. Another
strong pull and the rescued man was lying safe but exhausted on the
bank, while the two very wet dogs were frantically licking his face.
The animals, after being carried down stream, had succeeded in
finding a foothold, whence they had leapt clear of the dangerous
stream.
"You've saved my life, Norton," said Peter, stating a perfectly
obvious fact.
"It is nothing," protested von Eitelwurmer.
"Perhaps, but it is precious to me," rejoined Barcroft, unable, even
in his exhausted condition, to resist the temptation of "pulling up"
his companion for a badly-expressed declaration.
"What I did, I meant, of course," added the spy. "How about your
cap?"
"I'll have another shot for it," said Peter with sudden
determination. "If you'll hold my hand I'll reach it easily enough."
"No, you don't," decided the German firmly. "I don't want the
trouble of fishing you out again. Come along."
Having assisted Barcroft to the path, von Eitelwurmer again
descended, cut a short stick and deftly hooked the cause of the
accident.
"Here you are, Barcroft," he exclaimed, handing the cap to its
rightful owner. "Quite easy, you see. I suppose rabbit-shooting is
off at present?"
"Until to-morrow," replied the undaunted sportsman. "At ten, sharp.
You must have an opportunity of making up for what you missed
to-day, Norton; 'pon my word you must."