Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S Part 26

Ten minutes later Barcroft was on his way to Thorpe Beck Viaduct.

Altogether he could not form a satisfying solution to Norton's statement, until he came to the conclusion that in his excitable state of mind his friend had muddled up the names of two or more hotels.

"By Jove! I will take the rise out of him when I see him again," he chuckled. "Fancy putting up at the 'Pig and Whistle,' most likely, and imagining he was at the 'Antelope.' That's a great j.a.pe."

Presently he came in sight of the viaduct, the s.p.a.ces between the lofty granite arches of which were utilised as cow-sheds and stables.

No, Mr. Stigler was not there, so a halfwitted, deformed lad informed him. A donkey? Yes, there had been a donkey there. Mr.

Stigler had sold it that afternoon to a pedlar living at Scarby.

Where was Scarby? A matter of about ten miles and right on the coast. Anybody at Scarby would tell him where old Joe Pattercough lived.

Peter Barcroft rose to the occasion. Added difficulties only increased his determination to see the thing through. He decided to cancel his room at the "Antelope" and proceed by the first train to Tongby, the nearest station to the seaside hamlet of Scarby.

CHAPTER XXII

THE STRUGGLE ON THE CLIFFS

"A MATTER O' fower moiles, sir," replied an old fisherman in answer to Peter's inquiry as to the way to Scarby. "That is, if you'll be taking t' cliff path, which I wouldn't advise you, seeing as 'ow you'm a stranger. 'Tain't pertickler safe is yon path. Follow the righthand road. 'Tis a bit roughish in parts, but main pa.s.sable."

Mr. Barcroft thanked the man for his information and set out briskly upon his way. Twilight had already set in, to add to the difficulties of the last stage of the journey of the intrepid Peter.

Ahead rose the steep hill terminating in a frowning cliff--the first of three such ridges that lay betwixt him and Scarby. Away on his left he could discern a momentary glimpse of the North Sea, now grey and sullen and mottled by patches of fog that drifted slowly with the faint westerly breeze.

At a mile from Tongby railway station he struck the fork roads. The one to the left was the cliff-path, an almost gra.s.s-grown track, marked at regular intervals by whitewashed stones--necessary guides for the coastguards on a pitch-black night when a false step might hurl the incautious pedestrian to his death over the brink of a three-hundred-foot cliff. The right-hand way was a little _better_, although, judging by its condition, rarely used except by country carts. On either side the ground was rugged and thickly covered with gorse.

Wilder grew the countryside as Peter breasted the first of the three hills. Stunted trees, standing out against the crimson afterglow of the sky, a.s.sumed weird and fantastic shapes. To the faint moaning of the wind and the murmur of the sea came an accompaniment in the form of the cries of countless seabirds that find a nesting-place in the frowning face of those almost perpendicular cliffs.

Inland all was darkness. The narrow valleys contained human habitations, no doubt, but there was not a sign of their presence.

Peter's thoughts turned to his son as he looked seaward. Somewhere out there--it might be a matter of a few miles or of hundreds--Billy was serving King and country, perhaps snugly sheltered in the "Hippodrome's" wardroom, or, on the other hand, cutting through the darkness at an alt.i.tude of several hundred feet. It was not a pleasant task on a late autumnal night. With his trained imagination Peter could picture his boy out there--simply because of the German Emperor's insane ambition.

"Not content to let well alone," soliloquised Peter, "even when the German Empire was on the high road to commercial success and internal prosperity, the All Highest must b.u.t.t in and try to upset everything. Incidentally Wilhelm has done the British Empire a lasting service. He has cemented it far more effectively than centuries of legislation. He has welded it into a h.o.m.ogeneous whole; he has awakened every Briton worthy of the name to a sense of his individual responsibility to the colossal task that confronts him.

And, by Jove, we mean to see this business through. No half measures. A lasting peace built upon the ruins of German militarism."

Peter's reveries were suddenly interrupted by the sound of creaking cart-wheels and the steady patter of a beast of burden.

"Wonder if that is b.u.t.terfly?" he thought. "Now, if Mr. Pattercough is of the same type as friend Stigler and a bit of a tough customer I'd best lie low. Somehow I hardly like to argue the point about the lawful owners.h.i.+p of a donkey in this desolate spot."

There were plenty of places of concealment. Barcroft selected the shelter afforded by a gorse-bush close to the left hand side of the road. Immediately opposite was a beaten track that evidently effected a junction with the cliff path. At any rate, it wound in that direction, following the steeply sloping sides of a narrow, rugged valley.

The cart approached slowly. The driver seemed in no hurry, for he made no attempt either by word of mouth or by the application of his whip to hasten the animal. Only when the vehicle was opposite Peter's place of concealment did the man utter a subdued "Woa."

The donkey--for such it was--made no attempt to stop. "That's b.u.t.terfly for a dead cert," commented Peter.

The man uttered an imprecation, jumped from the cart and tugged viciously at the animal's bridle. Then, by main force, he backed the donkey a short distance along the side track.

"Plenty o' time," Barcroft heard him remark. "Better an hour too early than five minutes too late."

"Awkward habit, expressing one's thoughts aloud," mused Peter. "I do it myself occasionally, and I know. Now, what are you doing with a loaded cart on this unfrequented road at this time of night? I scent a mystery. I'll wait an hour and see what happens. If nothing, then I will kick myself for being an inquisitive a.s.s."

The pedlar was not going to be inactive. Unharnessing the donkey--Peter was now absolutely convinced that it was b.u.t.terfly--he led the animal to a patch of gra.s.s-land hidden from the road by the bushes, a task requiring considerable physical strength. This done he backed the cart from the path until the gorse hid it from the watcher's sight.

Ten long minutes pa.s.sed. The pedlar, swinging his arms vigorously, for the night air was chilly, made no attempt to look up or down the road. The person or persons he expected were evidently not approaching from that direction. Presently he walked to the cart, removed something from under the tarpaulin--it was too dark to see what the article was--and set off along the side track.

At fifty yards he surmounted a steep rise and disappeared the other side. The sound of his footsteps, deadened by the nature of the soil, quickly died away.

"Now I'll investigate," decided Barcroft. "If he returns in a hurry there'll be trouble. Friend Pattercough looks like a quarrelsome card. However, I'll risk it."

He stole cautiously to the place where the donkey and cart stood.

b.u.t.terfly, indifferent to the attentions of her lawful master, browsed steadily at the scanty herbage. The cart, although inanimate, was far more interesting. It was piled high with f.a.ggots and bundles of brushwood, a tarpaulin being tightly lashed over the top of the load. Mingled with the scent of the newly-cut wood was the faint odour of petrol.

Without the slightest hesitation Barcroft probed the load with his stick. The ferrule grated against metal--the side of a tin. Again and again he tried; the bottom of the cart was packed with petrol-cans.

"Now, if I set fire to this little lot who would stand the racket?"

inquired Peter. "This is obviously intended to be used illicitly--for supplying German submarines, although I can't be sure on that point. On the other hand, how would I stand under the Defence of the Realm regulations if I started a gorgeous bonfire? An hour too soon, he said; well, there's a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes gone, I should imagine. Remains enough time for me to get to Scarby, rout out the coastguards and put a stopper on this little game."

With this praiseworthy resolution Barcroft hurried off, keeping to the gra.s.sy ground in order to deaden the sound of his footsteps. His prowess as a long-distance runner had not entirely departed, although lack of training tried his wind sorely.

At the outskirts of the darkened village he came to a row of grey lime-washed cottages in front of which a tall flagstaff loomed up against the misty starlight.

"Halt!" exclaimed a hoa.r.s.e voice peremptorily.

Peter halted. Confronting him was a greatcoated, gaitered, bearded man in seaman's uniform.

"'Gainst orders to use this path after dark," quoth the coastguardsman. "What's your name? And what are you doing running like this at this time o' night?"

"How many men have you at the station?" asked Barcroft breathlessly.

"Eh? What do you want this information for?" demanded the man suspiciously. "You'd best come along with me an' give no trouble.

Strikes me there's something that ain't proper jonnick."

Barcroft preceded the seaman up the s.h.i.+ngled path leading to the watch house.

"Look here, my man," he said authoritatively. "You had better inform your chief officer and turn out the detachment. I've hurried here expressly to tell you that a man from the village, Pattercough by name, is running a cargo of petrol. Barcroft's my name. I have doc.u.ments to prove it. Also I have a son a commissioned officer in the Service, as you will find if you refer to a Navy List."

"In that case I ask your pardon," replied the coastguard, whose badges proclaimed him to be a chief petty officer. "I'm in charge, sir. This station is partly closed down since the war. I've only a few Boy Scouts to give you a hand--an' smart, plucky youngsters they are, too."

"Any special constables in the village?"

"Not one, sir; in fact, there ain't what one might call an able-bodied man in the place, barring this Pattercough. Tribunal exempted him 'evings only knows what for."

"Then turn out the Scouts," said Peter. "They'll come in jolly useful. There's no time to be lost."

Quickly half a dozen of the lads were on the spot, falling in at the word of command from the patrol leader. In a few words Barcroft explained the situation, enjoining silence until the petty officer gave the word for action.

"I'll just telephone through to Tongby and let our chaps know," said the coastguard.