Near the summit of Blackstone Edge, an unfrequented road running at a
height of between 1200 and 1300 feet over the serrated Pennine Hills,
five men were lying upon the short, dark-green grass in a slight hollow
within ten yards of the highway. There was little about their appearance
that demanded attention. A casual observer might in pardonable error
have taken them for a party of Lancashire mill operatives out for a
day's enjoyment.
At intervals one of the party would roll over on his side, produce a
pair of prismatic glasses from his pocket, and peer with considerable
caution over the ridge of the hollow, focusing the binoculars upon the
winding ribbon-like "slag" road that ascended steeply from the town of
Rochdale, the factory chimneys of which were just discernible through
the murky Lancashire atmosphere. Then, with a guttural grunt that
betokened disappointment, he would replace the glasses and relapse into
a stolid contemplation of his silent comrades. The hot sun pouring
pitilessly upon the heavily-clad men did not tend to improve their
physical comfort. Several times they cursed the tormenting flies,
expressing their murmured epithets in the German tongue.
At last one of the men spoke.
"Are you sure that he is coming this way, Hans?" he asked, addressing
the man with the binoculars. "Perhaps he has taken it into his head to
take the other road--the Stanedge Pass, it is called."
"These Englishmen are so pig-headed that they rarely change their
minds," replied Hans. "It is often as well that they do not. I have it
on excellent authority that he leaves Liverpool at nine, addresses a
conference at Bolton at eleven, and receives a deputation at Rochdale at
two. Now, is it conceivable that he would go a roundabout way to
Halifax when this is the shortest and easiest route?"
"He may take the railway train," suggested another of the band, as he
shifted an automatic pistol from his hip pocket, where it seriously
interfered with his ease, to his breast coat pocket.
"Knowing our man as I do," declared Hans, "I do not think it likely,
unless his motor breaks down over these atrocious cobbled roads. No, I
think we are soon to meet our expected visitor. Now, are you all
thoroughly acquainted with your duties? There must be no failure. Even
partial success is not sufficient. Complete obliteration of the man, a
final disappearance, is what is required, and what must be
accomplished."
A resolute chorus of assent rose from the four subordinates. Their
leader, levelling his binoculars, studied the road for the twentieth
time.
The five were members of a German Secret Service agency. Provided with
registration cards, obtained with the greatest ease, since no attempt
had been made to verify the particulars demanded by law; speaking
English with a flawless Lancashire accent, members of a trade union, and
fully conversant with the peculiarities of industrial life, the men were
able to carry on their nefarious scheme with little risk of detection.
After a run of minor activities, an opportunity was about to occur
whereby they might render an important service to the Fatherland. A
high official was engaged upon an industrial tour of Lancashire and
Yorkshire, with the intention of increasing the already huge output of
munitions from the factories temporarily given over to the production of
war-like stores. The magnetic personality of the man made the task an
easy one to him, although others less gifted would have encountered
nothing but opposition had they proposed the same conditions to the
independent operatives of Lancashire and Yorkshire. He was one of the
very few Government officials who understood the northern temperament.
When others would have "rubbed them up the wrong way", this level-headed
statesman was able to enlist the whole-hearted sympathies of blunt and
outspoken audiences. His persuasive powers were worth an army corps to
the Commander-in-Chief of the British troops in France.
The five Germans had laid their plans well. Their proposed operations
had met with full approval from head-quarters at Berlin, and the result
of their efforts was anxiously awaited by the German Government. Since
abduction left a loophole in the complete furtherance of the plot,
Teutonic thoroughness and frightfulness had devised a more drastic plan.
At the summit of the Blackstone Edge is a large lake or reservoir, its
unfenced sides shelving steeply to a depth, in a certain place, of fifty
feet. It would be a comparatively simple matter to wreck the car,
murder its occupants if they still survived the fall from the overturned
vehicle, and topple the wreckage into the dark waters of the mountain
lake.
A cloud passed athwart the sun. The sweltering heat gave place to a
piercing cold. The Huns shivered in the cold wind and grumbled at the
keenness of the English June. Overhead three gaunt crows flew, cawing
dismally. With Teutonic superstition one of the men called his
companions' attention to the ill omen.
"Nonsense, Otto!" protested the man known as Hans. "The ill luck is
directed against the man for whom we are waiting so patiently. Ha!
Here comes the car."
With their heads just showing above the ridge, the five kept the
approaching motor under close observation. It was climbing rapidly,
leaving in its wake a cloud of dust that drifted slowly across the deep
valley on the left-hand side of the curve. Presently an unmistakable
rasping sound announced the fact that the driver, finding the gradient
too severe, had let in the lowest gear.
"Are you certain it is he?" asked one of the Huns. "There are four in
the car?"
"Did you suppose he would travel alone?" retorted his leader. "That is
he right enough--the man in civilian clothes. The other is a military
staff officer. The red in his cap proves that. The younger men are
doubtless his secretaries--valets perhaps. Yes, it is our man. Now,
make ready."
Giving a glance in the opposite direction in order to make certain that
no one was approaching from the Yorkshire side of the Pass, Hans
cautiously placed a small battery within easy reach of his fat, podgy
fingers. From the battery ran a couple of fine wires through the
stretch of grass, terminating at an inconspicuous greyish object lying
in the centre of the road in the midst of a scatter of loose stones.
At the critical moment a touch upon the firing-key of the battery
and----
----
"Why are you so keen upon the East Coast route, Crosthwaite?" asked the
admiral. "It's a jolly sight longer."
"That I admit," replied the general. "But I know it, which makes a vast
difference. The Carlisle road is jolly rough, especially over Shap
Summit."
"By the by, George, here is a little problem for you," said Admiral
Sefton. "Which is the farthest west, Liverpool or Edinburgh?"
George looked at Leslie for assistance. That worthy, having heard the
question put many times before, took an astonishing interest in a
policeman at the street corner.
"Well, sir," replied George, "Liverpool is on the west coast; Edinburgh
on the east----"
"Within a few miles," corrected the admiral. "Therefore I should imagine
that Liverpool is more to the west."
"Then look it up on the map," exclaimed Admiral Sefton triumphantly.
"You'll find you're wrong. That's why I couldn't understand your
father's intention of keeping to the East Coast route until he explained
his preference."
"We'll do it quicker, too," rejoined Crosthwaite, Senior. "Once we're
clear of the outskirts of Manchester we'll reel off the miles like
winking. Here you are: Rochdale, Halifax, Bradford, and Harrogate,
striking the Great North Road at Boroughbridge."
The journey was resumed, the admiral, as before, sitting with
Crosthwaite Senior, while George and Leslie, comfortably ensconced in
the rear seats, were surreptitiously examining a formidable-looking
air-pistol that Leslie Sefton had smuggled into his portmanteau.
It was modelled after a Service weapon, having the same weight and
balance. The barrel was rifled, and was capable of sending a lead slug
with considerable force and low trajectory from a distance of fifty
yards.
"We'll take pot shots at rabbits on the way," declared Leslie. "The
governor won't hear the sound. It makes very little noise, and the
engine will drown that. There'll be hundreds of bunnies up there," and
he pointed to the still-distant outlines of the frowning Pennines.
Up and up, out of the dreary manufacturing district, the car climbed,
until the moist smoky atmosphere of the cotton-mills gave place to the
keen bracing air of the hills.
Both lads, alive to the possibilities of using the air-pistol, hung on
to the side of the car, their eyes roving the grass-land in the hope of
spotting a likely target.
The car had been climbing on low gear, but now the gradient became less.
The travellers were nearing the summit of Blackstone Edge.
Suddenly Leslie levelled the weapon, aiming at what he took to be the
body of a rabbit showing above the top of a hillock. He was on the
point of pressing the trigger when a loud crash, followed by a cloud of
smoke and dust immediately behind the car, almost caused the pistol to
drop from his grasp.
"What's that?" exclaimed Admiral Sefton.
"Tyre burst, I'm afraid," replied Crosthwaite Senior, momentarily
expecting the car to swerve. Applying the brakes he brought the car to a
standstill, with the engine still running, and prepared to investigate
the extent of the damage.
The Huns' carefully-laid plans had gone awry through Leslie Sefton's
instrumentality. The lad had mistaken one of the miscreants' caps for a
rabbit. Hans, under the impression that the attempt had been discovered,
and that one of the occupants of the car was levelling a pistol at him,
suddenly lost his nerve. He depressed the firing-key of the battery a
second or so too late. Instead of the detonation occurring immediately
underneath the motor, it expended its force harmlessly in the air.
"By Jove, Crosthwaite!" exclaimed the admiral as a rapid fusillade was
opened upon the stationary car. "Modern highwaymen!"
"Keep down, lads," ordered the general sharply, for the nickel bullets
were singing overhead like a swarm of angry bees. "Under the seat,
Sefton. Be sharp!"
"Never!" expostulated the admiral sturdily.
"Not you, I mean," almost roared his companion by way of apology.
"You'll find a Webley under the seat. Look alive, man! It's loaded
only in one chamber."
Leslie Sefton's first impulse was to duck, until remembering that he
still held a loaded weapon, although it was but an air-pistol, in his
hand, he rested the barrel upon the padded back of the seat and aimed at
the nearest of the assailants.
It was an excellent shot. The little bullet struck Hans just above the
right eye. With an oath the German clapped both hands to his injury,
dropping his pistol as he did so, and began to dance round and round in
agony.
"Four to four now," exclaimed the lad, taking into no account the fact
that the supposed highwaymen were all well armed. He jerked back the
barrel of the air-pistol and inserted another pellet, the zest of the
fight gripping him with the utmost intensity.
Meanwhile Crosthwaite Senior had let in the clutch, and had succeeded in
turning the car in the direction of the attackers. Altogether
unprepared for this manoeuvre, the four separated, two making to the
right, and the others, keeping close together, edging away to the left,
still maintaining a hot and erratic fire.
Bending low behind the wind-screen, the plate-glass of which was already
"starred" in several places by the impact of the bullets, the general
urged the car straight in the direction of the men on his left. Even as
he did so, the admiral, who had discovered the loaded revolver, blazed
away on his left, with the result that Otto lost all present and future
interest in the welfare of the Fatherland.
"Lucky shot," exclaimed Admiral Sefton modestly. "Very lucky shot. In
the centre of his fat forehead, by Jove!"
Only on rare occasions, since those far-off days when he was a young
lieutenant, had the retired naval officer handled a revolver, but his
skill and deadly precision remained. Leisure hours, spent with his
favourite dog and gun amidst his preserves, had done much to keep the
hardy admiral's eye as bright and his hand as steady as of yore, when
his revolver practice was the envy of his messmates on the old
gunnery-ship Excellent.
Ejecting the empty cartridge case, the admiral loaded all six chambers.
Then, ready to resume the encounter, he again levelled the weapon, at
the same time protesting audibly that the first shot was a mere fluke.
Giving scant heed to his friend's remarks, Crosthwaite Senior kept the
car full in the direction of his particular quarry. Over the low bank
bordering the road the heavy vehicle mounted, lurching dangerously as it
did so. Only by sheer chance did it escape being capsized, as the
offside wheels rose three feet clear of the soft, grass-grown soil.
"Dash it all, Crosthwaite!" protested the admiral. "Fairly spoiled my
shot that time. Easy ahead, man, or you'll have us all overboard."
Loud yells from another of the Huns showed that the admiral's second
shot, if not so deadly as the first, had "scored an outer". Leaving his
companions to continue the treacherous attack, the wounded man ran as
fast as he could, still bellowing with pain, and holding his coat tails
with both hands.
Only two Huns remained. Wildly firing, they stood their ground until
the car was within a few feet of them.
In his keenness Major-General Crosthwaite had not taken sufficient
notice of the nature of the ground. Mounting a steep hillock, the car
swerved and toppled completely over, pinning the admiral beneath the
chassis and throwing the other occupants headlong upon the turf.
In a flash the two Germans seized their opportunity. One, levelling his
automatic pistol, fired point-blank at the prostrate general, the bullet
passing completely through his uplifted arm and flattening itself
against his silver cigar-case. Before the miscreant could load
again--it was the last cartridge in the magazine--George flung himself
upon him.
The remaining Hun, finding that his automatic weapon was likewise empty,
and mindful of Leslie's brandished air-pistol, was chary of closing with
the lad. Incautiously, young Sefton levelled the pistol and fired, the
pellet merely penetrating the German's coat and waistcoat, and
inflicting a slight scratch on his chest.
In a trice, the Hun guessed the comparatively feeble nature of the
British lad's weapon. He knew that seconds would have to elapse before
the air-pistol could be reloaded. Mentally comparing his size with that
of the fifteen-year-old youth, he came to the conclusion that it was
safe to close.
Leslie, far from declining the unspoken challenge, threw himself at his
opponent, and two pairs of desperately earnest antagonists were locked
in deadly combat. It was long odds, for, with Crosthwaite Senior
helpless with a bullet through his arm, and the admiral imprisoned
beneath the overturned car, no help seemed likely to be forthcoming from
that direction. To make matters worse, Hans, the leader of the gang,
having quieted down after the first acute pain, had seen how things
stood, and, recovering his pistol, had cautiously approached, seeking a
favourable opportunity to turn the already-wavering scale.