"Eight days' leave--both watches."
The welcome order was given to the survivors of the _Calder's_ crew with
a promptitude that betokened official regard and appreciation of the
plucky destroyer's ship's company.
The _Calder_, safe in dock, was handed over to the care of the shipyard
authorities. At high pressure, the task of getting her ready for sea
once more would occupy the best part of two months, so badly had she
been knocked about.
When in dry dock, a discovery was made that showed how narrow her escape
had been from instant destruction. A large-sized German torpedo was
found in her flooded forepeak, its head flattened against the inside of
the bow-plates. Fired at a distance of a few yards, it had passed
completely through the thin metal hull, and, failing to penetrate the
other side, had remained trapped in the waterlogged compartment.
Examination showed that the safety-fan in the head of the weapon had not
had sufficient time to revolve and liberate the firing-pin. A
difference of a few yards would have been enough to transform the
innocuous missile into a deadly weapon, capable of shattering the
_Calder_ like an egg-shell.
Having written up his report to the Commander-in-Chief, seen Crosthwaite
safely into a shore hospital, and dispatched a telegram to his home
announcing his safe return, Sefton bathed and turned in.
Six hours later he was up, feeling considerably refreshed. All that had
to be done in an official sense had been carried out, and he was free to
proceed on well-earned leave.
A steam pinnace landed him and his scanty belongings on the Gateshead
side of the river. Clad in mufti, since his uniform was little more than
a collection of scorched rags, the sub made his way towards the station.
Perhaps, now that the arduous period of responsibility had passed,
Sefton was feeling the reaction. At any rate his usual alertness had
temporarily deserted him, for, on crossing a crowded thoroughfare, he
narrowly escaped being knocked down by a passing motor-car.
"Why don't you look----?" began the owner of the car; then: "Bless my
soul, Sefton! Whoever expected to see you here! Thought you had been
done in, 'pon my soul I did. Where's the _Calder_? And how's old
Crosthwaite?"
The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Farnworth, Sefton's old shipmate on board
the _Hammerer_, where both had served as midshipmen during the earlier
stages of the war.
"They slung me out of the submarine service," said Farnworth, after
Sefton had briefly replied to his friend's enquiries. "Why? Oh, merely
a bit of bad luck! Crocked my leg, don't you know."
Farnworth was too modest to give details. He had vivid recollections of
a dirty day in the North Sea, with submarine E-- lying awash, and a
hostile mine foul of her bows. The plucky young officer, assisted by a
couple of equally resolute seamen, succeeded in freeing the submarine
from the unwelcome attentions of the metal globe, but in so doing the
mooring-chain had surged, fracturing Farnworth's thigh as the heavy mine
dropped clear.
It took three months at Haslar Hospital, followed by six weeks at
Osborne, to set matters right, but the sub's leg was permanently
shortened. To his great relief, Farnworth was not invalided out of the
Service, although unfit for sea. He was given a good billet in the
Intelligence Department, his district covering the Tyne ports, Hull, and
Liverpool.
With a powerful car at his disposal, Farnworth was in clover. His sole
regret was his inability to tread the planks of a British war-ship. The
call of the sea was strong. He would willingly have relinquished his
"cushy job" to be in command of the slowest little torpedo-boat flying
the White Ensign.
"I'm keeping you," said Sefton at length.
"Not at all," said Farnworth, with a grin. "It's Government petrol I'm
using, you know, and I'm not due at Liverpool until eight to-night. Do
it on my head, so to speak. And you?"
"Just off to the station, old man," replied Sefton. "Want to get home
to-night."
"Southampton? I doubt it, old bird. You've missed the express to
King's Cross. No, I'm not to blame. It had gone long before you tried
to commit hara-kiri under my car. Look here; hop in and I'll drop you
at Manchester in plenty of time to pick up the through train."
Sefton accepted the invitation with alacrity. Being whisked through the
air in a comfortable car was infinitely to be preferred to being cooped
up in a railway-carriage after a tedious wait in a draughty station.
The ninety odd miles to Halifax was covered in two hours and a half,
for, on the open road, Farnworth let the car all out, only slowing down
while passing through the big industrial towns that lay on his route.
"Now for a ripping stretch of country," exclaimed Farnworth
enthusiastically. "Something to blow the cobwebs away, don't you know.
I always take this road in preference to the Hebden Bridge way. It's
steeper, but the car can do it hands down."
Up and up, with very little reduction of speed, the high-powered car
climbed. Sefton, drowsy for lack of sufficient sleep and from the
effects of the strong air, failed to share his companion's enthusiasm.
Lulled by the rhythmic purr of the motor-car, he was fast becoming
oblivious to his surroundings when Farnworth gave him a violent shake
with his disengaged hand.
"What's wrong?" enquired Sefton.
"Scrap," replied his chum laconically. "Something more than a
dog-fight. What?" he muttered under his breath as he pulled up.
Twenty yards from the road was an overturned car. Close to it lay a
khaki-clad figure, while engaged in a desperate struggle were two pairs
of interlocked combatants. Approaching them with stealthy steps was a
short, thickset, bullet-headed man holding an automatic pistol.
This much Sefton took in with a glance as he leapt from the car.
Fatigue and sleepiness had vanished in an instant. All he realized was
that a party of motorists was being molested by a gang of armed roughs,
and that was enough.
With Farnworth limping close at his heels, Sefton ran to the rescue. An
encouraging shout from his companion caused the armed ruffian to turn.
Brandishing his pistol, he shouted a warning to the two new-comers to
"clear out and mind their own business".
Undeterred by the sight of the weapon, the two subs bounded forward. A
couple of bullets whizzed past Sefton's head, one of the pieces of
nickel chopping a slice out of the lobe of Farnworth's left ear.
Before Hans could fire again, the deep report of a heavy revolver rang
out, followed by a bluish puff of smoke from underneath the overturned
car.
Clapping his hands to his side, the German spun round three times and
collapsed to the ground.
As he passed, Sefton kicked the fellow's pistol, sending it flying a
dozen yards. If the Hun were playing 'possum, the sub meant to take no
unnecessary risks.
In ten seconds the struggle was over. A powerful blow from Farnworth's
clenched fist made George's assailant relax his grip on the lad's throat
and fall like a log.
Leslie's antagonist, who was fast choking the plucky lad into a state of
insensibility, broke away, and, with a yell of terror, fled for his
life, hotly pursued by Jack Sefton. Realizing that he was being
outstripped, the miscreant made straight for the lake and plunged in.
Vainly the sub waited for him to rise to the surface. Either the man's
head had struck against some hard substance at the bottom or else he had
become entangled in the weeds.
Greatly to Jack's surprise, he found that it was his young brother who
had put up such a game struggle with his burly antagonist, and that Dick
Crosthwaite's father and brother were of the party. Still greater was
the sub's astonishment when he heard a well-known voice exclaim,
"Bear a hand, Jack. It's not at all comfortable here."
With assistance the admiral was extricated from the wreckage, little the
worse for his adventure.
"Hang it all, my boy," exclaimed Admiral Sefton, "we were coming to look
for you. We heard the _Calder_ was overdue."
"Didn't you get my wire, sir?" asked Jack. "I telegraphed directly we
got ashore."
"Considering I've been three days on the road," replied his father, "my
postal address isn't of much use. Hulloa, Crosthwaite, what have you
got?"
"Nothing much," declared the general. "A clean bullet-wound. Thought
I'd been plugged through the chest. The shock knocked me out. By Jove!
That was a narrow squeak."
He held his cigar case up for inspection. The bullet had penetrated the
lid, and had flattened itself against the back, a bulge proving by how
little the missile had missed making a complete perforation.
"The rascal has spoilt two of my choice cigars," announced Crosthwaite
Senior wrathfully. "What was the object, I wonder? By George, Sefton,
I see ourselves let in for a coroner's inquest."
While Jack and the admiral were attending to George and Leslie, neither
of whom showed any signs of serious injury, Farnworth examined the
bodies of the three men. Two were stone dead--silent testimonies to the
accuracy of the admiral's aim. The third was unconscious, the blow from
Farnworth's powerful fist having stunned him. Of the others, one had
been drowned, while the remaining member of the gang--the one wounded by
the admiral--was at that moment limping painfully over the hills, and
putting a safe distance between him and the scene of his rash and foiled
exploit.
"By Jove, old man," exclaimed Farnworth, in the midst of his task of
examining the contents of the dead man's pockets. "See what you make of
this?"
He held up a sheet of soiled and creased paper, covered with
closely-written flourishing writing, for Jack Sefton's inspection.
"German, by the powers!" he added.
"Partly in cipher and partly in ordinary writing," declared Sefton.
"These fellows are Huns, right enough, but what is their object?"
Farnworth did not reply. He was intently studying the minute
penmanship. Suddenly he started to his feet.
"The swine!" he ejaculated furiously. "Look here--these three
words--all as plain as a pike-staff."
"Well, what does it mean?" asked the admiral, his attention drawn to the
discovery by Farnworth's exclamation.
"A diplomatic mission is leaving a certain port. By this time the vessel
detailed to convoy the party may have sailed. The spies knew this: this
paper proves that. Either they or their accomplices have designs to
interfere with the plan."
"A bold surmise on your part," remarked Admiral Sefton.
"I hope I'm mistaken, sir," replied Farnworth. "We'll have to be on the
move at once."
"What's your plan, old man?" enquired Jack as the party set to work to
convey the wounded general to the waiting car.
"Make for the nearest telegraph office," was the prompt reply.
"And these?" enquired the admiral, indicating with a comprehensive sweep
of his hand the overturned motor and the three motionless forms of their
former assailants.
"Can wait, sir," replied Farnworth. "We'll send the police and a
break-down gang to clear up the business. All ready, Jack?"
Away glided the car, descending the curved road at terrific speed.
Approaching the bottom of the pass, another car was encountered going in
the opposite direction. It contained the high personage who probably
owed his life to the blunder the Germans had made in mistaking
Crosthwaite's party for his. In complete ignorance, the occupants of
the two cars passed. The Government official was never to learn how
close he had been to a foul death by assassination on the desolate
Blackstone Edge.
Over the rough setts of Rochdale, Farnworth's car tore, until the young
naval officer slowed up to pass through a dense crowd gathered round the
windows of a firm of newspaper proprietors, and extending more than
half-way across the street.
Instinctively the occupants of the car looked at the bold letters
scrawled upon a large sheet of paper.
"Good heavens!" ejaculated the admiral, hardly able to believe his eyes;
"we are too late!"