"H'm," muttered the flight-sub.
"He's one of a few that drew a lucky number, I'm thinking, sir," remarked the man who stood next to him. "Fair slave-driven, that's what we were. But that's all over now, thank God."
The rest of the passengers passed muster. They were Danish subjects—merchants and farmers, brought over at the instance of the British Government to assist in certain transactions between Great Britain and Denmark.
"A clean bill of health," reported Billy as the destroyer's sub rejoined him.
"And all serene down below," rejoined the latter. "We'll shove off. Thanks, captain, for your assistance; sorry we had to hold you up, but we're at war, you know."
"Yes," added the Dane, "and you have our moral support. I wish that we were a bigger nation. We, too, have old scores to wipe off—my family lived at Flensburg for years until '66. Flensburg is in Germany now, but some day—who knows?"
"A good sort," announced the sub, as the boat made her way back to the "Antipas." "These Danes remember Schleswig-Holstein almost if not quite as much as the French do Alsace Lorraine. I shouldn't be surprised if they chip in just before the end, if only to get their lost provinces back. How about Denmark extending frontiers to the Kiel Canal, and making that artificial waterway an international concern, eh?"
The sight of the destroyer dipping her ensign caused both officers to turn their heads and look at the "Trone." The latter was again under way and had just rehoisted her ensign after saluting the British warship.
"I feel downright sorry for those ten Britishers," thought Billy. "Their experiences have put years on to their lives."
But, had he known, he might have made an exception; for, holding aloof from his companions, Mr. William McDonald was thanking his lucky stars that he had again bluffed the inspecting officer. Within the next twelve hours William hoped to reassume the name of Andrew Norton, trusting to his natural cunning to explain satisfactorily the reason why he left the neighbourhood of Barborough so suddenly on the night of the raid.
Evidently Siegfried von Eitelwurmer, alias Andrew Norton, otherwise McDonald, had strong reasons for leaving his Fatherland in order to risk his life in the British Isles.
CHAPTER XX
INVESTIGATIONS
"To come straight to the point, my dear Entwistle," said Peter Barcroft. "I may say that I have two reasons for looking you up. The first is purely a matter of form—to inquire after your injured ankle. Judging by the way in which you crossed the room I think I am right in concluding that your recovery has been rapid and, I hope, permanent. No, don't limp, old man. That won't do. The second is to make inquiries respecting a donkey—to wit, one Butterfly."
"Oh!" remarked Entwistle. "Anything wrong? What are the symptoms?"
"A bad form of absentitis," replied Peter grimly. "Don't you know?"
The vet shook his head.
"Continue," he said, as he handed his tobacco-pouch to his caller.
"The brute never came back. In his hurry my son forgot to mention it—he was recalled by wire, and the young bounder never even dropped me a postcard. Now I'm on Butterfly's track. Can you assist me in my quest?"
"Sorry," replied Entwistle, taking the pouch and deliberately filling his briar. "Stay. I did mention to Billy that the animal ought to be shod. Why not inquire of the various blacksmiths on the way to Tarleigh? Let me see: there's Schofield's in Cook Street, Barnes's in Forge Lane, and Thomas's in Dyke Street—they are all just off Chumley Old Road. How did you come into Barborough—by train?"
"No, I walked as far as the tram terminus," replied Barcroft Senior.
"If you like I'll run you back in my car," suggested the vet. "We'll look the blacksmiths up on our way. Any news of your friend Norton?"
"Not a sign or a word."
"H'm!"
Entwistle shrugged his shoulders. Peter looked at him keenly.
"Why that 'h'm'?" he asked.
"Only—by the bye, have the police been informed?"
Barcroft shook his head.
"Not by me," he replied. "I'm inclined to think that he'll turn up again in a day or two. It may be a form of eccentricity encouraged by the excitement of the raid."
"Yes," agreed the vet. "Three days ago. Yes, it is quite about time he put in an appearance. Well, excuse me a moment. I'll tell Jarvis to bring the car round."
"Sure I'm not putting you out?" asked Peter.
"On the contrary—delighted. As a matter of fact, I have to see a horse belonging to a farmer over Windyhill way, so it will be killing two birds with one stone. Now for this bad case of absentitis."
Inquiries at two blacksmiths were without satisfactory result. The third, who happened to be the man who had shod the refractory Butterfly, could only state that the last he saw of the animal was that it was scampering along Jumbles Lane, and that the trap still remained in a shed in his yard.
"Th' oughtn't ta' be much trouble to trace yon animal," concluded the smith. "A champion she were-a right down champion, mark you. They may clip her coat or dock her tail or change her colour, but 'tis her size as they can't alter. Meantimes I'll keep a look-out, master, and if I hears aught——"
"Going to report the matter to the police?" asked Entwistle, as the pair re-entered the car.
"I think not," replied Peter. "It might end in the representative of the law running in every itinerant donkey owner on sight. I think I'll enlist the services of the Press to the tune of an eighteenpenny advertisement."
Outside the newspaper offices a crowd had collected to read the latest bulletin:
"Destroyer Action in the North Sea. German torpedo-boats destroyed. British Naval Airmen rescued from sinking enemy craft."
Making his way through the throng Peter entered the office, gave in his advertisement and bought a paper.
"That's great!" he ejaculated as he read the brief report. "Billy's pals, Fuller and Kirkwood, saved by one of our destroyers. By Jove, Entwistle, who says that the British Navy is sitting tight in harbour? Whenever there's an opportunity our lads in navy blue are on it."
"Then why the deuce confine the facts to a few bald lines?" asked the vet. "The job's done properly, and a stirring story it would make! Something to buck up people at home. Instead, you have to rely upon your imagination, which is apt to let you down."
"Give it up," said Peter the optimist. "All I know is that we are top dog, and everything will pan out all right in the end."
"Granted," agreed Entwistle. "The Navy's all right; the New Army is splendid—we'll muddle through somehow, in spite of the miserable legacy of the Wait and See crowd. There's a hymn beginning 'A people who in darkness sat.' That sums up the whole state of the civil population of Great Britain. To my mind the nation resembles a mass of iron filings spread out on a sheet of paper—all sixes and sevens. A magnet will instantly cause those particular pieces of metal to fly into orderly formation following the lines of magnetic force: a Man will be able to do the same with the nation, only, unfortunately, we haven't yet found the Man. We as Britons trust too much to chance—to a sort of voluntary organisation of labour. Result, every man is asking why some one else doesn't do his bit and tries to persuade himself that he is a sort of indispensable himself, I shouldn't be surprised if the war ends in a patched-up peace."
"No fear," asserted Barcroft firmly—so emphatically that Entwistle almost relaxed his grip upon the steering wheel and narrowly avoided collision with a brewer's dray. "There'll be nothing of the sort. The men who are now fighting mean to see the business through and not leave the horrors of war to be repeated with triple violence as a legacy to their children and their children's children. It's got to be done—and done it will be, even if it takes another two years."