about you, but I'm not going to help the blighters who tormented
Solomon Levenstein in Frankfort. And I am going to make Creation
hear all about Meltite, even if I don't get paid C.O.D. Afterwards,
when you fools here do get wise to what you've been offered, the
price will be two millions instead of one, with the earldom thrown in
as per before. Dirt cheap, too! Only ten hours' cost of your
blessed war. Then I'll settle down and marry--yes, marry some real
nice girl with a lump of money--and have a family, and try to feel a
real Englishman. And I'll have the best collection of enamels on
earth--not on view to the public, or they'd be raising my income-tax.
'The Earl and Countess of Livingstone invite you to Livingstone
Castle to meat tea, and afterwards to view their celebrated enamels.'
And perhaps we won't do it in style----I beg your pardon."
"Not 't all," said the man whose hat he had bashed in. "Just
rehearsing your speech, I suppose? Or have you been dinin'--like
myself? What do you say to joining me in small glass particular old
fine champagne brandy to keep it all quiet? You'll have to pay for
yourself because of non-treating order, but I'll pay for myself next
round, so that'll be all right."
Now S.J. was not in the mood to come down from the clouds and drink
brandy with a stranger who had obviously "dined" already, and the
stranger was sharp enough to notice this. Said he:
"Don't strain yourself to come in here if you're due at the club.
But I'm bound to talk to somebody about my yacht, or else I'll burst,
and I thought you'd do."
Thoughts snapped and sizzled in S.J.'s brain.
"A yacht, have you?"
"Well, I call her that when I want to put on edge. Admirin' friends
describe her as a coffin with the motor too far aft."
"Thank you," said S.J. Livingstone. "I'll come in with you and have
that cognac."
"Come along in then, or some sweet young thing will trip along and
ask why I'm not soldierin', and I shall bring the blush to her damask
cheek by explaining how few of my legal set of insides I've got left
on the premises. You unsound, too?"
"Too old," said S.J., who was thirty-five. "Turned forty-six, I'm
sorry to say, though perhaps I don't look it. How big's this yacht
of yours?"
"That depends whether you view her with the mellow eye of evening, or
run her over with a cold two-foot rule. Just now I could take her
round the world with a crew of one, and if there was a German to kill
at the far end, I'd take her round twice. Gad, man, I'd give
something to be sound! But it's no use lyin' to those infernal Army
vets. I know. I've tried."
"It must be beastly. Then she's an ocean-going yacht?"
"Good heavens, yes, man; though frankly she's a bit damp if there's
much sea runnin'. But in anything like smooth water, if her sparking
plugs are clean, and she's pleased with her mixture, she can kick out
eleven--yes, and up to eleven-point-eight sometimes, as easy as look
at you. And I've just shipped a patent washstand that'll beat the
band. Can't leak in-board however rocky the valves get."
"Why haven't you hired her to Government?"
"Because the swine don't know a soft thing when they see one. She
fouled two of their blessed conditions out of eight hundred and
forty-three. It was my own patent balance-rudder that floored her
finally. They said she'd turn turtle if I gave her a hard-over helm
at top speed. Well, so would a loco go smash if you ran it full pelt
into the buffers. It's a thing a man doesn't do, that's all. Damn,
let's clear out of here! That pretty girl with the gold hat there by
the pillar is going to shove a white feather on me. I know it by her
thoughtful eye. And I shall be saying something I shall regret
to-morrow morning if she does. Have you a club anywhere handy?"
"I haven't a London club."
"Well, I've a pot-house of sorts in St. James's Street. We'll go
there. Drat that girl."
* * * * *
It was a queer and one-sided partnership that was fixed up between
Jew and Gentile that night. The Gentile, who was Sir Thomas Hillcote
(seventh baronet), hankered after nothing except "a bit of sport with
the Germans." The Jew's single idea was to advertise Meltite so
noisily that even the British Government must see the need to buy it
up at maker's terms.
"Hallo, Tommy!" said a man coming into the club smoke-room. "How's
_Drowning Made Easy_? Still afloat?"
"No, I've put her on wheels and made her into an armoured car," said
the owner genially.
"Well, call on me when you want a spare shuvver. My neck's my own at
present. Nobody seems to want it."
"That's Bell," said Hillcote, as the man carefully picked his way to
a chair at the other side of the room. "He's got locomotor ataxy.
He and I both crocked in the Navy the same week, and got fired out by
a Medical Board on the same day. Rum, isn't it?"
"Oh, you're a naval gentleman, are you?" said S.J.
"There's another blow. I've got even Navy rubbed off me now, have I?
As a matter of interest, was it one of our genial archbishops you
took me for? Alack, my fatal gravity of manner."
"Then you can navigate, and all that?"
"I was a most promising officer. Every one said it of me. It was a
thing I couldn't avoid. The First Lord sobbed out that now, indeed,
the country would go to the dogs when they lost me. I say, Mr.
Isaacs, I mayn't stand you a drink because of the brutal Laws of the
Land--Section: Treating. But you may absorb mine when I'm not
looking. I've about got my load. My crumbs, but wasn't that a
pretty girl with the gold hat?"
"If you carry out my scheme, you could marry ten girls with gold
hats."
"Not 't all, my good chap. I'm not a Turk. But, by Jove, I'll tell
you what! If you'll let old Tinkle Bell chip in, we'll call it a
deal. He's having a filthy time, poor dear, just now, what with pain
and being flinty, and all that, and if he saw a decent chance of
being hung as a pirate, or anything in that line (which is what your
scheme seems to amount to)--excuse me, Mr. Benjamin, if I'm a bit
fuzzy about it--he'd freeze on to it with both claws. By the way, I
suppose you are an Englishman?"
"Rather! Sorry if you thought I was anything else."
"Not 't all. But you will waggle your hands in moments of
excitement. Pedigree started in Asia, I suppose. I shall want a bit
of proof that you can deliver those goods in the dynamite line you've
been speaking about----"
"Meltite."
"Very likely. Never heard of it. I wasn't one of the scientific
johnnies. I was merely a salt-horse lootenant. Well, prove to me
and old Tinkle that this blowy-up stuff will eat holes in a ship's
plating, as you say, and we'll motor you off to any old point in the
North Sea you care to name till we've sunk all the shipping afloat,
or run out of bombs, or been strafed ourselves, whichever comes
first. Is it a bet?"
"You're just the gentleman I want. Look here; read that! There's a
full specification of Meltite."
"Nothing doing, most noble Abraham. I don't care a row of pins for
typewritten matter. The letters jump about so. Nothing but the
genuine article at work will convince us. Let Tinkle and me see that
with a sober morning eye, and we'll get busy with a speed that will
surprise you."
Sir Thomas Hillcote's motor-boat does not appear in either Lloyd's or
the Yachting Register as _Drowning Made Easy_, but as her real name
brings up other memories, it may here be suppressed. Anyway, amongst
her intimates and acquaintances she is sufficiently well known by her
nickname.
She was the darling of her owner's heart, and largely the product of
his lamentable inventive faculties. From her misplaced engines to
her ridiculous bow, from her capstan (whose barrel would not bite) to
an enormous balance rudder that would have capsized a battleship, she
was a museum of enthusiastic ideas gone wrong. Ex-Lieutenant Thomas
Hillcote swelled with pride every time she tried to shake him
overboard. Ex-Lieutenant Bell was glad to be at sea once again in
anything that would float. He had been desperately afraid of dying
in his bed these last few weeks, and now, with the low land of the
Thames Estuary dropping into the grey seas astern, the fear was
easing. There was war and work away through the North Sea mists
ahead, and perhaps luck.
"Can you cook?" S.J. Livingstone was asked.
"I never tried. I've always been above that sort of thing."
"Then you've got to learn. You aren't a watch-keeper, and seeing as
how we don't carry a crew this trip, you'll have to cook--and cook
well, or you'll get the foul side of Tinkle's tongue. When we bring
up alongside the enemy you'll be gunnery lootenant, and you take
charge, and we two do as we're told. But till then you're cook,
Father Isaac; and as we're bare Navy in the way of drinks, and
there's no whisky on board, you're to stand-by with hot cocoa
whenever it's wanted. Got that? We'll worry along on cold tin and
biscuit for the rest. But we're not going to be done out of our
lawful cocoa, and don't you forget it. You may be sick between
whiles, though what in thunder you're being sick for in smooth water
like this beats me. Good Lord! there's a busy devil of a destroyer
buzzing up at about fifty knots, and wasting my country's fuel-oil
most scandalously, just to interfere. Here Tinkle, you talk to her,
and tell her we're out after mackerel. Say I'm below, writing to a
lady friend who wears a gold hat."
Ex-Lieutenant Bell tried to be formal, but was recognized.
"Haw, haw! you and your mackerel! Glad to see you looking so fit,
Tinkle. You'll be back as a giddy brass-edged commander before the
week's out. Go easy with that wheel, or you'll twist off Tommy's
patent rudder. If you stick to your present course you'll land on to
the feather-edge of my fancy new minefield. You might call me up if
they don't go off, and I'll come and set 'em better. You gay kipper,
why doesn't _Drowning_ carry a pilot? But I suppose that's Tommy.
Trust Tommy for running on a graveyard if there's one handy. You
bear away four points starboard, Tinkle, and you'll live a lot
longer. Keep good."
The destroyer grunted and bucked, and ran away over the edge of the
horizon at the speed of a railway train. She spread the news amongst
the British sea police patrolling the North Sea, and they in their
turn jeered at the motor-boat, and let her through. An important
small cruiser wig-wagged "Captain's compliments to Sir T. Hillcote,
and he didn't care for mackerel, but would like brace of grouse." An
ugly tug, with a three-inch gun stuck through her towing-bridge,
hailed through a megaphone that she could supply a stale tinned
tongue for bait if fish were not biting freely. A draggle-tailed
motor patrol-boat, whose crew all wore forked beards in polite
imitation of Admiral Tirpitz, offered to bet _Drowning Made Easy_
three gallons of petrol to a pint of lubricating oil she hadn't got
more than three cylinders firing at that precise moment--and the bet,
for painful reasons, could not be taken.
"We're making a dreadful stir," said S.J. Livingstone once, between
spasms. "I'd no idea there were so many British ships about."
"Who did you think ran the North Sea?" Bell asked. "The Germans?
You've been reading the papers, Uncle Reuben. You're entirely wrong.
It's ceased to be the German Ocean quite a lot of months now, and
we've taken possession of it ourselves for keeps. Bring me a bowl of
cocoa, Reuben, hot and gummy, and mind you don't slop it about on the
oilcloth like you did last time. Also bring me of the sandwiches,
cold-dog variety, one; class, non-bendable. I have a twist on me,
Reuben, for the first time for three months. After you have
completed your important duties as steward, you can stand-by, and get
a couple of your torpedoes, or whatever you call 'em, ranged ready
for action. We are not exactly on our cruising ground yet, but
there's a good thick North Sea fog coming down, and you meet all
sorts of funny things in fogs."
"I don't think I can do it," said S.J. faintly. "This beastly little
boat lurches so, and I've been so sick, I've no strength left."
The man with locomotor ataxy dropped his drawl, and yapped in the old
style of the quarterdeck.
"Carry out your orders! This is war-time! If you don't do as you
are told, I will fling you overboard. We've no use here for extra
ballast. If you can't do it yourself, I'll take charge of your
Meltite, or whatever you call it, and make what I can of it myself."
"You coolly say you'll rob me?"
"Like a bird. Carry on, now!"
S.J. Livingstone found himself doing as he was told. These ex-naval
lieutenants at sea were very different people from the thirsty souls
he had talked with in a St. James's Street club, and he suddenly
found himself scared. The attitude of Sir Thomas Hillcote on the
matter clinched things.
"I resent Mr. Bell's treatment," said S.J., as he was bringing aft
the ordered cocoa.
"You can resent till you're black in the face," the baronet informed
him cheerfully.
"And I shall square up for it when I get home."
"Home! Who's thinking of getting home? We're out here to play games
with Germany, with half the British Fleet standing by ready to
interfere. You haven't a cat-in-hell chance of seeing your happy
home again, Moses, my dear. You carry on and don't worry about the
future, or you'll meet with present trouble that'll cause you pain.
That's a sound tip. Old Tinkle's got the devil of a temper now he's
seedy, and he'll break your arm or crack your jaw as soon as look at
you if you don't carry out orders smartly. I'll help him if
necessary."
Now I don't think S.J. was a coward, but he was first and foremost a
business man, and he was beginning to regret very much that he had
launched Meltite with these strange associates. His idea, of course,
was (with their help) to advertise the stuff and sell it. Theirs was
an entirely different proposition. They looked forward to doing the
maximum of damage with it--and there their programme ended. They did
not anticipate getting back to England. They had no care whatever
for the future of Meltite or its inventor. The disgusting part of it
was there was no wriggling out of the deal. His earldom, his two
millions, his beautiful enamels----
"Below there. Stand-by with those torpedo things. Tommy, bear a
hand to do as Reuben tells you. Neither of you is to use a word of
English. Hear that Reuben? If you let out a word of English I'll
shoot you like a rat. I'll do all the patter: understand? And
Tommy, fish out those German uniform caps for the pair of you. I've
got mine bent."
S.J. Livingstone went out presently into the cold foggy air on deck
with heavy burdens, and to his amazement saw a German naval ensign
whipping and snapping from the motor-boat's jackstaff, and her wheel
held by a starched and arrogant German officer in whom he could
hardly recognize the late Mr. Bell of St. James's Street. A steamer
of 3,000 tons loomed through the fog, and the motor-boat was edging
down on to her on a parallel course.
"What steamboat's that?" The hail went in harsh German.
"Steamship _Rhein_, Rotterdam-Amerika Line, Vanrennan Master, from
Galveston for Rotterdam. Cotton loaded."
"Heave-to, and I will see if I must sink you."
"But, thousand devils, Captain, I'm carrying cotton I tell you, and
it's for Germany."
"That's what I wanted to know. Get out your port boats, and row
clear as soon as you like. I'm coming up to starboard."
The Dutch skipper danced on his bridge, but his crew carried out the
order without waiting for him to repeat them. Then Bell put the
motor-boat alongside, and S.J. did the rest with the efficient help
of Sir Thomas Hillcote.
The charge of Meltite was made fast to an electro-magnet, which was
fed by an accumulator of S.J.'s own design. This was not active till
it was clapped against a ship's plating, but once there a switch was
automatically thrown in, and the whole affair clung in place like a
limpet. Simultaneously a small detonator fired the Meltite.
_Drowning Made Easy_ slid away with a spurting, sputtering spray of
molten iron pursuing her, and a fine firework effect taking place
over her counter.
"Good Heavens!" said Hillcote. "That fiery stuff is eating the
plating away as if it was so much tissue paper, and inside the hole
things look like a blast-furnace. That's the cotton, I suppose.
Aren't those ducks getting out their boats in a number-one hurry.
There goes the owner down off the bridge to get the ship's papers
before he leaves for home. By gad, look! The deck's catching now.
Aaron, my lad, your stuff's big medicine, but it advertises itself a
bit too much for my taste. We shall have the British Navy round here
with fire-engines and first-aid kit in two jiffs, and we don't want
to meet them. No, not any. Tinkle, my humble friend, bear away to
the cold North for half an hour, and I'll hop below and whoop up the
coffee-mill another knot or so."
"You might strike that infernal flag before you go; and, here, take
my fancy hat with you."
They fired a second ship that night, copper-laden, and were fired at
by a third. The third ship carried a profane Yankee officer on her
bridge who had apparently been ruffled by the British Navy in the
immediate past, and said he would see all Germans in hell before he
answered their questions. He backed up his remarks with a .380
automatic Colt, with which he made remarkably close shooting. Next
day Sir Thomas Hillcote broke down and was put in his bunk.
"I told you my insides were unreliable," he gasped at them between
spasms. "Leave me the morphia, and I shall be quite merry and
bright. Don't you worry about me, Tinkle. I'll dream about that
girl with the gold hat. You carry on, and Jonadab will help you.
Jon's getting quite a second Nelson with all his experience. Oh,
corkscrews! that was a twinge. I'd take a cast closer in to
Rotterdam if I were you."
"We've only just about enough petrol to get home on," said S.J.
"Who wants to get home, my good Jeremiah? There's lots more mischief
to be done out here if all goes well and the British Navy doesn't
butt in. Just think: all this stuff into or out of Rotterdam is for
or from Germany, and because Germany's got a pull in London, the
British Government doesn't interfere."
"That's true enough," said the man who had run dyewares.
"Well we, not being politicians, and knowing what's good for the
country, do interfere. That's all. I suppose a lot of pious people
will want to hang us for our pains, but till we are hung we'll go on
with the missionary effort. Tinkle, get busy. There's a steamer
coming. I can feel the vibration of her propeller on my sore liver.
No, propellers; she's twin screw. Hop, you lazy scoundrel, or she'll
be past us."
"Sir Thomas is bad," said S.J., when they got back on deck.
"Have you only just found that out? That new fellow's coming towards
us. I'm going to turn round. Mind you don't get shot overboard when
I give her the helm! Here! Stay on deck there, you Reuben. You
needn't worry about Tommy shooting out of his berth. I'll keep him
on the lee side."
Once more ex-Lieutenant Bell appeared as the complete German naval
officer, and barked his remarks in a foreign tongue. The new ship
was a Swede, out of Rotterdam for New York, full to the hatches with
German leather goods, dyewares, and chemicals. "Those beasts of
English," announced her captain, "are respecting the rights of
neutrals this week, whatever they may do next."
"Got good freights?"
The Swede shrugged apologetically. "Well, in war time, illustrious
Herr, we neutrals all look to make a little extra bit. Be
careful--Himmel! be careful; you will run me down."
"Not a bit of it. I'm not going to rain. It's only a sort of game
like 'Tig' we're playing. Now then Rube. On the port quarter. Clap
on your poultice when I swing her in, and don't get flung overboard
if you can help it. Poor old Tommy's patent rudder's a bit fierce.
Great Scott, man, but you set that fuse mighty short. You'd better
put some oil on those burnt hands before the air gets to them."
"You German swine," the Swede stormed, "you have set my ship on fire."
"I hope so, Mr. Neutral. Rather pretty effect, I call it. To see a
big chunk of plating dissolve out into mere sparks and roman candles
is astonishingly pretty to the simple sailorman. I should call away
your boats if I were you, or you'll get wet feet. Excuse my butting
in with advice, but you seem rather to have lost your head, and by
the smell, those leather goods you were bucking about are beginning
to singe."
Now the night was dark and the night was clear, and it sang with
wind; and the steamboat flamed like a torch; and by the rules of war
_Drowning Made Easy_ should have faded from the scene of her exploit
with all possible speed. But the Swede bungled his boat-lowering
badly, and Bell could not tear himself away. He bawled advice with
an acid tongue, and in the event of the advice not being acted upon
efficiently, he stood by to save life.
"We shall be seen here," said S.J., frostily.
"Bound to be. Party in the front seats at the firework show always
is spotted by the whole audience. But a man couldn't clear out
whilst there was a possibility of those fellows frying, unless he was
a dam' German. I'm sure you see that, Rube?"
"Ye--es," said S.J. Livingstone, and stepped down into the after well
and sat there. Something inside him bumped with heavy foreboding.
The German submarine must have come up awash, and quietly stalked
them by the light of the burning Swede.
Bell did not see her till she was close alongside. They called on
him to surrender. He very naturally turned on his power, and tried
to bolt. At the same time he threw into the grey North Sea the last
remaining Meltite firemaker, where it burst into torrid flame, and
exploded in a geyser of fire and steam. Him, after a careful
inspection--a very careful inspection--the Germans shot in six
places. Then they bore down alongside, and made fast.
The boarding party found Sir Thomas Hillcote dead in a bunk below.
He had bitten through his lower lip because he did not wish to call
out and disturb his two shipmates on deck who were trying to give a
lift to the British Empire. They examined S.J. curiously, inquired
his name, and, on hearing it, transhipped him with politeness.
One of the officers leaned over Bell, who was very nearly gone. "Ha,
I thought I knew you. We met once at Kiel, if you remember, at the
regatta. I'm sorry, but it's the fortune of war."
"Don't apologize," gasped the man with locomotor ataxy. "I've got to
windward of the Admiralty--this trip, and died in my boots--at sea.
At sea! I've--had--luck."
Down below in a clammy cabin in the U-boat, S.J. Livingstone found
himself treated with a curious courtesy that after a while began to
chill. It flashed upon him that cannibals might be similarly
courteous to a missionary that they proposed to--well--attend to
later. These German officers knew his name, the style of his firm in
Bradford, the nature of his proceedings at the British Admiralty, his
rejection by the "bland ass" at the War Office. They mentioned that
eminent officer's name, and could imitate his manner. They even knew
about S.J.'s taste for enamels, and had a catalogue of his more
recent purchases. It was all most uncanny. They gave him his
favourite Pommery to drink.
They knew all about the powers of Meltite, and recited to him a list
of ships destroyed and a description of what they looked like as they
burned. It was all very accurate, and scientific and, unnerving. An
outside observer would have noticed one curious change in S.J. He
was not the least arrogant now, either in manner or look. I don't
say he cringed, but--well, there was a change.
They even in a wooden way got on to his pedigree.
"You are not English? No?"
"Certainly I am. My name is Livingstone. Unless you call it Scotch."
"Livingstone? Ah, but before you changed it? What?"
S.J. kept a sullen silence.
"Answer me. Was it not Levenstein?"
"Yes," said S.J. and felt his self-respect oozing from him.
"So! And now you are going to tell me--pleasantly, and without
pressure--how Meltite is made?"
"I do not know. I forget."
"So? Then I hope you like chlorine. Because until you remember, I
shall put you in the compartment with our accumulators which just now
are gassing, and there you will perhaps recover your memory before it
is too late."