"What the dickens do you mean, Cornwallis?"
And he said:
"I mean, Towler, that this is the hiding-place of a German spy. There's
a telescope with which he picks up periscopes, and there's a lamp, with
which he signals to the submarines by night, and there's the petrol he
takes to them to replenish their tanks. And this shows the Doctor was
right: you can get Fate in real life as well as Greek tragedies."
And I said:
"But the prawn-nets and fishing-lines and corks and paint, and so on?"
And he said:
"These things are merely blinds to distract the eye from the others."
So I said:
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
And he said:
"I am going straight back, and after tea, or even before, I shall tell
the great Mr. Foster there is a pro-German traitor under his cliff, and
offer to show him the way to the spot."
"I'll help," I said. "But the thing is to be careful, and surprise the
spy at his work."
Just as I said these words, curiously enough, the spy surprised us, and
we found ourselves in a position that wanted enormous presence of mind.
Suddenly we heard the sound of heavy feet outside, and as there was only
one way up to the hut, it was clear we could not escape without being
seen. And if seen, of course, our object was lost, for the spy would
make a bolt of it.
The question was where to hide, and, by the best possible luck, there
was a chance to do so. A big tarpaulin hung on a nail on the side of
the hut, and it was of great size, and came nearly to the ground, while
at its feet was a seaman's box. Owing to the fortunate smallness of
Cornwallis and me, there was ample room for concealment behind the
tarpaulin, and our feet were hidden by the box. So we got behind it and
hardly dared to breathe, though, just before the traitor came in,
Cornwallis had time to whisper to me:
"If he's come for his tarpaulin coat, we're done for, and he'll very
likely kill us!"
And I whispered to him:
"Be hopeful. Fate may be on our side, and it's not the weather for a
tarpaulin coat, anyway."
Then the spy came in, and though I was not able to see him, Cornwallis,
by a lucky chance, got a buttonhole of the coat level with his eye, and
saw the fearful spectacle of the spy.
He was a dreadful object, with wickedness fairly stamped on him, so
Cornwallis said afterwards. He was a big man with humpbacked shoulders
and a cocoanut-like head, far too small for his body and legs. He was
grey, and had a shaggy beard and a wide mouth that showed his teeth.
These were broken and black. His nose was flat and small, and his eyes
rolled in his head as he looked round his hut. They were black and
ferocious to a most savage extent. He kept making a snorting sound,
which was his manner of breathing. He wore dirty white trousers and a
jersey, and upon his feet were dirty canvas shoes. He had no hat, and
he didn't look the sort of person that Fate would be interested in. But
you never know. He suspected nothing, and had not seen us come in,
which was the great fear in my mind.
The creature did not stop long, yet long enough to give himself away for
ever as a spy, for he took one of the green tins of petrol, and then,
saying some English swear words to himself of the worst kind, went out
and slammed the door behind him. We nearly shouted with joy, but a
moment later our joy was changed into the most terrible sorrow, because
the spy fastened the door behind him. We heard a chain rattle and a
padlock click, so there we were, entirely at the mercy of a creature
evidently quite dead to pity in every way. This was, of course, Fate
again, as Cornwallis pointed out.
There was a window about a foot square high up in the roof of the hut,
and when the spy shut the door and locked us in, everything became dark
excepting for the light from this narrow window. Therefore, when we were
sure our enemy had gone, and there was not a sound outside, I got on to
a table, and Cornwallis climbed on my back, from which he was able to
look out through the window. Luckily it faced the sea, and Cornwallis
reported that the sea had come a great deal nearer, and that the spy was
only about fifty yards off. He stood on a sort of pier of rocks, and
was pulling in a rope to which was attached a small motor-boat.
Then naturally I wanted to get on Cornwallis's shoulders, but he told me
not to move for a moment. Then he said that the spy had got into the
boat and was evidently going to sea. And then he said he had gone.
I next climbed on to Cornwallis, and so proved the truth of his words,
for I distinctly saw the motor-boat speed off with the spy in it. I
also saw that the tide had come in, and soon it was actually beating
against the rocks twenty-five feet or so below us.
When the motor-boat had disappeared in a westerly direction, Cornwallis
and me got down off the table and considered what we ought to do.
"The first thing is to make every possible effort to escape at any
cost," I said. But he said that he had already thought of that, and
felt pretty certain it was beyond our power. The window seemed the only
hopeful place; but it was made not to open, and the glass was thick, and
Cornwallis said we couldn't have got through the hole, even if there had
been no glass. But I said:
"It is well known, Cornwallis, that if a man can get his head through a
hole, he can get his body through."
And he said:
"It isn't well known at all. You might because you have got a head like
a tadpole, but I couldn't."
I said I was sure I had read it somewhere, but, anyway, it didn't
matter. We examined the hut thoroughly, and found it was only too well
and solidly made. We were utter prisoners, in fact, and, owing to the
spy not knowing it, might very likely be left to die of starvation. He
might even have gone to join a submarine, and never come back.
"Perhaps he does know we are here all the time," said Cornwallis.
"Perhaps he spotted us, and pretended he didn't. In that case he may
have locked us in deliberately to starve us, not caring to waste a shot
on us."
This thought depressed us a good deal, and presently the sun sank and
the light began to fade, and a seagull that settled outside on the roof
uttered a melancholy and doleful squawk.
Of course, we were far from despairing yet, and Cornwallis made a
cheerful remark, and reminded me that if we had eaten our last meal on
earth, at any rate it was a jolly good one.
And I said:
"There may be food concealed here, for that matter. We'd better have a
good hunt, and look into every hole and corner before it is dark."
This we did without success. There were many strange things there,
including pieces of wreckage, a bit of an old ship's steering-wheel, and
a brass bell with a ship's name on it; but there was nothing eatable
excepting some fish to bait a lobster-pot; and the fish hadn't been
caught yesterday, and we had by no means reached the stage of exhaustion
in which we could regard it as food.
Cornwallis said:
"As a matter of fact, our great enemy will be thirst. I am frightfully
thirsty already, for that matter."
And I said:
"So am I, now you mention it."
As the light died away, we held a sort of a council, and tried to decide
what exactly was our duty--to England firstly, and to ourselves
secondly. We talked a good deal, until our voices grew queer to
ourselves, and it all came back to the same simple fact--our duty was to
get out, and we couldn't.
Then I had the best idea that had yet come to us.