"Hang it!" he soliloquised. "There's no cut-out on a gee-gee. I know how to stop an engine right enough, but a horse has a brain of its own and can be jolly erratic when it wants to. What on earth possessed the governor to go in for a quadruped when he has a rattling good car?"
Just at that moment the harmony of the morning was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Carter engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Sarah Crumpet, the D.T.—otherwise Domestic Treasure—who "did" for Andrew Norton, Esquire.
Although the two ladies were at a side door that opened directly into the scullery their voices could be heard with astounding clearness.
"Eh! An' tha' found tha bed not slept upon?" she exclaimed. "Mr. Norton may ha' been called away a-purpose."
"Nay, that 'e wur not, Jane," declared Mrs. Crumpet. "I'm a-tellin' on ye, sitha'. Mr. Norton 'e meant to come back, for the whisky was on th' table."
"Methinks he looks to my employer for his nightcap," remarked Mrs. Carter with asperity.
"An' I was so overcome like," continued Sarah ignoring the insinuation, "that I simply 'ad to 'ave a drop-the first time I ever 'ad a chance up yonder."
"'As 'e paid thee thy brass?" enquired the sympathetic Mrs. Carter.
"Ay, that 'e did, thanks be. But it seems most strange-like, this business."
"I'll tell th' master," asserted Mrs. Carter as the other woman walked away. "An' sitha', if you're feelin' out o' sorts again, Mrs. Crumpet, now's your chance afore the bottle's locked up."
With this parting injunction the "help" of Ladybird Fold shut the door and made her way to the study.
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Barcroft when the Little Liver Pill had duly reported the absence of Mr. Norton. "He was here last night and left in a hurry before I returned; I'll stroll across in the course of the forenoon. Ah, good morning, Entwistle; how's that foot?"
"Better, thanks," replied his guest. "Gives me a bit of a twinge when I set it to ground. Well, what's the morning's news?"
"Papers not in yet, not that I expect any enlightenment on the subject of the raid in the Press report. There are all sorts of rumours flying about, as is to be expected. But it will be all right some day—when we tackle the business properly. These Zeps. will come once too often. It's a mystery to me that they haven't summed up the results and come to the conclusion that these haphazard raids aren't worth the candle."
"Unless it is to divert the attention of the German people from the Western Front," remarked Entwistle.
"Quite possible," agreed Peter. "Now to breakfast. I'm sorry your car couldn't come to fetch you—not that I want to lose you exactly, although I have a batch of proofs in hand," he added bluntly. "You understand? Billy will drive you into Barborough."
"And what do you think of the measures taken to combat the Zeppelin menace?" enquired Entwistle addressing himself to Billy. The flight-sub shook his head.
"I'm afraid I cannot venture an opinion," he replied. "Both branches of the Air Service are doing their level best—they cannot do more."
"You won't be able to draw Billy, Entwistle," added his parent with a laugh. "Even I cannot get him to talk shop."
"Pity some military men I know aren't like him," said the vet. "Nowadays it's either too much shop or too much official reticence. The middle path seems to have been lost sight of. But any more of the mystery of your friend Andrew Norton? I couldn't help hearing your housekeeper holding forth just now."
"Can't understand it," replied Barcroft Senior. "Why Norton should bolt out of my house and desert his own all night is a complete puzzle. I can only put forward the theory that the Zep. raid made him lose his mental balance—and he's a fellow with a steady head, I fancy. If he doesn't put in an appearance before lunch time I feel it is my duty to report the circumstances to that pillar of intelligence the Tarleigh police sergeant."
"And possibly get yourself arrested on suspicion," chuckled Entwistle. "Norton was last seen in this house, remember."
"It would be an experience that would afford practical knowledge as far as my work is concerned," decided Peter. "Nothing like real life to work into a plot, you know."
Breakfast over, Entwistle and the flight-sub went out into the garden for the time-honoured matutinal pipe until it was time for Peter's guest to take his departure.
"Come along, Billy," shouted his father. "Bear a hand at getting Butterfly harnessed." The flight-sub was in mufti. His uniform had been damaged beyond repair during his toil amidst the ruins of that devastated street in Barborough. A scar across his cheek and several livid weals on the back of his hands testified to his labours amongst the burning debris.
Somewhat proudly Peter threw open the doors of the combined coach-house and stable. Within was a small governess cart and a sleek and obviously overfed donkey.
"Allow me to introduce you to Butterfly," he announced. "Warranted to be quiet in harness and a thoroughly good trotter."
Billy said not a word. He had contemplated with considerable misgivings the imposed task of driving a spirited mare through a populous district; but those doubts were as naught compared with the prospect of piloting a humble "moke" through traffic in a strange town.
"Thank goodness I'm in mufti!" he soliloquised with a deep-drawn sigh. "'The condemned man walked firmly to the scaffold' sort of feeling. Well, here goes; no one is likely to know me in this show."
Putting the animal into the shafts was an evolution that required the utmost tact on the part of Barcroft Senior and much nautical skill on the part of his son. It was their first attempt in this direction.
"Get her this way while I hold the shafts," exclaimed Peter. "Gee up, old lady."
Butterfly obeyed and took up a position athwart the hawse of the craft, as Billy expressed it.
"Round with her," continued Barcroft Senior. "I can't hold these infernal shafts up all day."
Putting his shoulders to the donkey's hind quarters Billy succeeded in "slewing the boat's stern round."
"Easy astern!" he shouted in ringing nautical tones.
Surprised beyond measure, Butterfly turned her head to take stock of this unusual type of groom, with the result that the flight-sub's face received a good buffet from the animal's nose. Simultaneously the brass trappings of the harness rasped Peter's hand.
"Confound it!" he roared, relaxing his grasp and allowing one shaft to fall with a clatter upon the cobbles. "The brute's barked my knuckles."
Then, reasoning that the damage afforded a sufficient excuse to "knock off" his professional labours he held his peace on the nature of his injuries.
"Warranted quiet in harness," quoted Billy as his parent cautiously retrieved the shaft. "My word, pater, there's not much room between the dock-gates. Think she'll take it?"
"Ought to," replied Barcroft Senior dubiously. "Now, have another shot. I wish the brute had a reverse gear."
By dint of mingled coaxing and physical force Butterfly was backed between the shafts. Then both men regarded the result of their triumph with chastened looks.
"Strikes me we've missed this sling arrangement on the starboard side," remarked Billy. "That leather thing ought to be round the shaft. She'll have to forge ahead a bit."
"Right-o!" assented his parent. "Gee-up. Oh, dash it all! That's my toe this time."
For Butterfly, in "forging ahead" had brought her hind hoof heavily upon Peter's foot, which happened to be encased in a carpet slipper.
At length the evolutions arrived at a state that found the donkey in the shafts. Father and son stood back to admire their handiwork and to puzzle out the way to adjust the seemingly chaotic tangle of harness.