AT THE LIGHTHOUSE
"GOOD-MARNIN', Mr Trematon, and good-marnin' tu you young gen'lmen,"
exclaimed the genial farmer as the patrols halted outside the
farmhouse. "Du'ee come right in and have a drink o' milk. Mary, du'ee
ask missus tu bring a score o' glasses out; cups'll du, if there
bain't enow."
Refreshed, the Scouts began their tour of inspection, their host
accompanying them and answering to the best of his ability the
innumerable questions with which his visitors plied him. Not once but
a dozen times Farmer Trebarwith was forced to own himself beaten, so
intricate were some of the problems put to him.
"There be Polkerwyck House," announced the farmer, pointing to a
long, two-storeyed stone mansion lying in a broad valley snugly
sheltered from the north and east by a steep, tree-clad hill. "Sir
Silas Gwinnear lives there when he's at home, which ain't often.
Heard the latest news about his affair in Lunnon, sir?"
Mr Trematon shook his head. Newspapers were to be almost strangers to
him during the fortnight at Seal Island. Atherton felt a strange
sensation in his throat; he realised that if the miscreants had been
caught it meant an end to his holiday at Seal Island, since he would
have to be one of the principal witnesses for the prosecution.
"The police says as that they knows who the villains are as half
murdered Sir Silas," continued Farmer Trebarwith. "Only the rascals
have padded the hoof--gone somewhares to foreign parts. They says as
'ow Sir Silas, bein' 'ead of the Associated Shippers'
Federation--whatever that might mean--has upset some o' the dockers
over the new scale o' payments, and the dockers have got their back
up."
"Look, they're haymaking over there," exclaimed little Reggie Scott.
"What fun it would be if we could toss the hay about."
"Du it, an right welcome, young gen'lmen," said the farmer. "Us be
tur'ble short-handed, what with three o' my chaps 'aving gone to
'Merica, and two more down wi' mumps. Sure, I'd be main glad to see
the hay safe under cover afore the rain comes on." And Trebarwith
glanced anxiously towards the western sky.
"A chance to do a good turn, lads," exclaimed Atherton. "Tell us what
to do, sir, and we'll tackle the job."
For the rest of the morning the Scouts toiled in the sultry air like
young Trojans, tossing and carting the hay to one corner of the
meadow where the farmer's men were at liberty to commence the
construction of the rick. By noon, when the labourers ceased work to
enjoy their mid-day meal of bread and cheese washed down with cyder,
Farmer Trebarwith expressed his opinion that Scouts were main handy
lads, and that, by their aid, he did not expect any difficulty in
getting the crop safely under cover before the evening.
After a bounteous dinner provided by the grateful farmer, the Scouts
formed up and started on their march to the lighthouse on Beware
Head. Their route lay on the same road as far as Polkerwyck, and
thence by a narrow cliff-path, skirting Seal Island bay to the
promontory where the lighthouse is situated.
As the patrols were passing the Polkerwyck post-office--a small
cottage converted into a general shop, draper's, grocer's, chandler's
combined,--a smart dogcart was drawn up outside. From the shop came a
tall, ungainly and not prepossessing man dressed in black. His face
was pale; his eyes deep-set, shifty and heavily lined underneath; his
closely trimmed side-whiskers gave the appearance of a superior
manservant.
Furtively looking up and down the narrow street and giving a
supercilious glance at the passing Scouts, the man jumped into the
dogcart and urged the horse at a rapid and unnecessary pace up the
steep road leading towards Wadebridge.
Atherton asked and obtained permission to fall out, and giving the
tip to his chum Simpson, induced that worthy to accompany him into
the post-office.
"Two picture postcards and two halfpenny stamps, please," he asked of
the old lady who was the local representative of His Majesty's
Postmaster-General.
"It be middlin' warm, sir," remarked the postmistress, as she
laboriously counted out the change.
"It is," agreed the Leader of the "Otters." "By the by, I didn't know
that Mr Jones lived anywhere about here."
"Mr Jones, sir?" asked the old lady in a puzzled tone.
"Yes, the gentleman who was in here a minute ago: the one who drove
up in a dogcart."
"You must be making a mistake, sir," replied the old dame. "That
bain't Mr Jones. No one of that name bides hereabouts--leastways I
can't call the name to mind, an I've lived here maid and wife these
sixty-seven years come Michaelmas. Sure, now, that wur Mr Tassh--Paul
Tassh commonly socalled--as is butler up at the big house."
"Polkerwyck House?"
"Yes, Sir Silas' place."
"Thank you: I've made a mistake in supposing his name was Jones,"
said the Scout, and saluting he left the shop.
"I say, old fellow," exclaimed Simpson. "What's the move? You don't
know anyone called Jones living about here, I feel certain."
"Neither do I," agreed Atherton calmly. "I only wanted to find out
who that fellow was. He may be the man who paid a night visit to Seal
Island."
"Of course he may be, but there are ever so many chances that he may
not be," said the Leader of the "Wolves." "One thing I noticed: he
was not wearing indiarubber shoes."
"It is not at all unusual for a man to change his shoes more than
once in a day," remarked Atherton. "It was his walk that I noticed.
He has big feet, yet he took very short steps. The suspicious way in
which he looked over his shoulder did not impress me very
favourably."
Before any more could be said the two Leaders separated to rejoin
their respective patrols, and the ascent of the cliff path commenced.
It was a tedious tramp up and down, as the route descended almost to
the sea-level in order to traverse the numerous small streams that
found their way into the bay. Five times the lighthouse was hidden by
intervening ground ere the Scouts drew up at the whitewashed stone
wall enclosing the lighthouse and the keepers' houses adjoining.
The lighthouse men were most painstaking in their task of explaining
everything to their young guests. The clockwork and manual-worked
machinery for actuating the occulting light, the ingenious
construction of the lenses of the lantern, the usual and the
emergency means of supplying its illumination--all were in turn shown
to the Scouts, none of whom had ever been in a lighthouse before.
"Bill!" exclaimed one of the keepers in the midst of a technical
discourse. "It's coming on thick. You can't see the Island already.
Throw me the key of the rocket store."
The keeper addressed as Bill handed over the required article, and
then drew back the curtains of the lantern room, which, during the
day, were always kept closed in order to prevent the rays of the sun
from damaging the dioptric lenses of the lantern. A sea-fog--another
sign of an approaching storm--had banked up with considerable
rapidity. Wreaths of vapour were curling over the waters of Seal Bay,
while, as the keeper had announced, the Island itself was quite lost
to view.
"This'll give you a chance to see how we work the explosive
fog-signals," remarked the man, as he hauled down a fishing-rod-like
apparatus from outside the lighthouse. "Here are the
charges--gun-cotton, fired electrically; two every five minutes."
Securing the two cartridges to the forked ends of the rod, the keeper
hoisted the latter to its former position and touched a key. A sharp
crack, that in the outer air resembled the discharge of a
seven-pounder, announced that the first of the warning signals had
been fired. Ten seconds later the second was discharged, and the
keeper lowered the holder to recharge it.
"What makes the light blink?" asked Scott.
"This revolving screen, sir," answered the keeper. "It is worked by
the action of a slowly falling weight, after the principle of a
grandfather's clock. We have to wind it every two hours. If that goes
wrong we have to grind the lantern round by hand, and a precious
stiff job it is."
"That's where we would come in handy," observed Baker. "Scouts to the
rescue, eh?"
"All right, young gentlemen. I'll bear that in mind, and if the
apparatus goes wrong while you are on Seal Island we'll signal for a
party of you to bear a hand. There'll be stiff arms and aching backs
in the morning, I'll warrant."
The inspection came to an end at last, and Mr Trematon led his Scouts
out into the now dense fog.
Upon reaching Polkerwyck, the Scoutmaster went into the post-office,
for since he had promised Phillips that he should be the hunter of
the party, he had to get the lad a gun licence.
"Now you'll be all right, Phillips," exclaimed Mr Trematon.
"To-morrow morning you can take my gun and see if you can knock over
enough rabbits to provide us with dinner."
"There'll be a telegram for you, sir," said the post-mistress,
handing the Scoutmaster a buff-coloured envelope. "Came in this
afternoon, and Peter Varco telled me as there was no one on t' Island
to take it, so I kept it back."
Mr Trematon hastily opened the envelope and scanned its contents,
then filling in a telegraph form he handed it in and left the shop.
"Lads," he explained, "I've had bad news. Circumstances demand that
I return to my home at Guildford as soon as possible. Atherton, until
I send some one to take charge, you must be Acting Assistant
Scoutmaster. I know I can trust you. Here is enough money to carry
you on for a few days, and here is the key of the portable locker. If
I hurry I may be able to catch the evening train from Wadebridge. Let
me know every day how you get on."
"We are sorry, sir," said several of the Scouts in chorus.
"Thank you, lads," replied the Scoutmaster. "I trust it is not so bad
as the telegram leads me to believe. Can you get across to the Island
all right in the fog, or shall I ask Varco to pilot you over?"
"We'll manage all right, sir," said Atherton confidently. "I have my
pocket-compass, and I know the bearings."
"Very good; now good-bye, lads; I hope you'll have a decent time in
spite of the impending weather."
"Good-bye, sir," shouted nearly a score of voices with genuine
regret.
The next moment Mr Trematon, hurrying up the hill as fast as he
could, was lost to sight in the fog, while the "Otters" and the
"Wolves" remained on the stone quay of Polkerwyck till the sound of
his footsteps faded into a silence broken only by the ground-swell
upon the wild and rugged coast.