IN spite of the drastic reduction in length, and the fact that the motors in the bow section were still disabled, the "Meteor" was able to maintain a respectable speed of ninety miles an hour. Owing to her comparatively small midship-section she offered less resistance to the wind than do the standard types of British dirigibles.
Apart from the restriction in crew and store space the only disadvantage of the reduced "Meteor" was the fact that she yawed considerably. Formerly she was "drawn" by the for'ard propellers and "pushed" by the after ones, but now the tractors were out of action the whole of the driving effort was aft. Consequently the motion was rather erratic, the greatest inconvenience being experienced by those of the crew stationed in the bow division.
"You there, Callaghan?" asked the Captain at the telephone communicating with the new wireless room; for previous to abandoning the two midship compartments the wireless operator had transferred his delicate apparatus to a cabin immediately abaft the for'ard motor-room on the starboard side.
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the Irishman.
"Call up the 'Repulse,' will you, and ask the Admiral if he can conveniently detach a light cruiser. Tell him we are still in pursuit of Durango, who is on board a tramp, nationality unknown. Our present position is 1° 45' 20" N. lat., and 86° 2' 10" W. long., approximate."
"That ought to settle the business," continued Vaughan Whittinghame, turning to his comrades in the observation room. "I hardly like the responsibility of compelling a strange vessel to heave-to: it might lead to awkward international complications; besides, it would be a difficult matter for us to board her, even if her skipper offered no objections."
"Let's hope the Admiral will be willing to detach a cruiser," added the doctor. "There is no reason why he should not, as far as I can see, since things have quieted down in Valderia. It reminds me——"
Dr. Hambrough's reminiscences were interrupted by the wireless man entering the observation room.
"What's amiss now, Callaghan?" asked the Captain, who could read bad news on the Irishman's face.
"Something wrong, sir," replied the operator. "I can't call up the flagship, nor any other ship or station, if it comes to that. I was very particular, sir, when I transferred the gear——"
"When was it last used?" asked Vaughan.
"At seven o'clock last Tuesday, sir."
"That was before the storm. I shouldn't wonder if the same electrical disturbance that crippled our motors has not played the wireless a nasty trick. Any way, Callaghan, see what you can do, Unfortunately, we have not Monsieur de la Fosse with us."
The Irishman backed out of the cabin.
"Must make the best of a bad job," continued the Captain without visible signs of annoyance at the latest misfortune. "At any rate, we shall have to use discretion when we tackle the business with the tramp. What course do you suggest, Mr. Dacres?"
"I think we ought to wait until we overhaul the vessel, sir; then, when he have discovered her nationality, we can act accordingly. It's a seventy-five per cent chance that she's either a British or a Yankee."
"But, surely, if she were," demurred Setchell, "that rascal wouldn't have the cheek to be taken on board?"
"You must remember Durango is as full of resource as a Christmas turkey is full of stuffing," replied Dacres. "He's had the cheek to pose as an Englishman—an Englishman, mind you!—more than once. It's pretty certain, if the tramp sails under a red ensign, that Durango has bluffed her 'old man.' Bluffing, as a fine art, is a valuable asset."
The "Meteor" was now heading N.E. by N., at less than five hundred feet above the sea. She was passing over a number of small sailing craft that reminded the sub of a scene off the Dogger.
"They are principally engaged in carrying turtles from the Galapagos to Panama," remarked Gerald. "Recently there's been a big demand for turtles, and the industry has revived. It's strange that most of the export trade should be carried on in craft like those; yet one rarely hears of any of them coming to grief."
"I hope that Durango hasn't been put on board one of them!" suggested the irresponsible Setchell.
"Don't say that," expostulated Dacres.
"Mr. Setchell has named a possibility," added Captain Whittinghame. "The thought never occurred to me. If, when we overhaul the tramp, we are satisfied that Durango is not on board we can return and make investigations amongst the turtle fleet. It will be a week or more before they fetch Panama."
By this time a stiff south-easterly breeze had sprung up, so that the drift of the airship was considerable. In less than an hour it had developed into half a gale.
"That's the worst of this part of the globe," remarked Dacres. "In the Doldrums it is either a flat calm or blowing hard enough to carry away one's sticks. There are no half measures."
"Sail in sight, sir," announced one of the look-out men. "Dead ahead."
"It's one of those Galapagos boats," declared Captain Whittinghame, after making a careful scrutiny through his binoculars. "Poor brute! she's tried to steal a march on the rest of the fleet and has run into this gale of wind."
"She's got it well on her starboard quarter, though," said Setchell. "She's almost running free."
"The worst direction for a craft of that build," added Gerald. "Look, there goes her canvas, ripped to ribbons."
The turtle boat—she was barely thirty feet overall and entirely open—was now at the mercy of the waves. Wallowing sluggishly in the trough of the huge crested seas she was in momentary danger of being swamped.
Captain Whittinghame was not long in making up his mind. He quickly weighed the difficulties: the "Meteor" unable to manoeuvre so easily as before; the practically crippled motors; the urgency of the quest, all flashed through his brain. On the other hand, human life was in danger.
As quickly as possible the "Meteor" was brought head to wind and about half a mile to leeward of the dismasted craft. With the propellers running ahead just sufficiently for him to counteract the force of the wind the airship rolled and pitched like a barrel.
"Clear away a coil of three-inch manila," ordered Vaughan Whittinghame. "Stand by to veer out a buoy."
Several of the crew of the "Meteor" hastened to carry out their captain's orders and, in spite of the howling wind, they succeeded in getting the necessary gear on the upper deck.
The men in the turtle boat, seeing that help was at hand, were waving their arms frantically.
"Pity those fellows didn't make use of their energy in cutting away that raffle and riding to it," remarked Dacres. "What will happen when we forge ahead with that craft in tow, sir?"
"We'll lie steadier than we are at present," replied the captain. "All the same, we'll approach her stern-foremost. It will give the propellers a better chance."
Round swung the "Meteor," dropping half a mile to leeward during the operation, but as soon as she made towards the crippled boat the new conditions suited her admirably. Instead of rolling she settled down to a steady undulating motion.
"Pay out the rope," ordered Captain Whittinghame.
The airship was now only two hundred feet above the raging sea. As soon as the whole coil, one hundred and thirteen fathoms in length, was paid out and allowed to trail in the water, she forged ahead immediately over the disabled craft.
Dexterously one of the crew of the latter caught the trailing rope and made it fast round the stump of the foremast. Just then a tremendous broken sea was observed to be bearing down upon the already sluggish vessel.
The three men who formed the crew saw it coming. The master attempted to put the helm down, but the craft had not yet gathered way. A shout of terror, barely audible above the roar of the wind and water, arose from the men; the two who were for'ard deftly fastened themselves to the slack of the rope trailing from the "Meteor." The helmsman, seeing what they were about, promptly abandoned the tiller, ran to the bows, and cast off the tow-rope. Even as he did so the huge wave surged down upon the doomed craft and swept completely over her. She sank like a stone.
"Take a couple of turns round the capstan," shouted Dacres, who saw what had occurred; then thrusting the starting lever hard down he bade one of the crew stand by while he himself went to the guard-rail to direct operations.
Fortunately the master of the lost craft was a man of powerful physique and held on to the rope like grim death. His two companions, being lashed on, were in no actual danger, but could the master retain his hold sufficiently long to enable him to be hauled into safety?
Whittinghame had now ordered the motors to be switched off, and the "Meteor," scudding before the gale, no longer dragged the three men against the hard wind. Foot by foot the three-inch manila came home. It had to be stopped while the first of the rescued men was assisted over the bulging side of the airship, and again when the second was hauled into safety.
Dacres, keenly on the alert, saw that the master's strength was ebbing. Quickly bending a stout rope round his waist and calling to three of the crew to take a turn, he leapt over the guard-rail, slid down the convex slope and grasped the wellnigh exhausted master by his wrists.
Forty seconds later the sub and the man he had risked his life to save were standing almost breathless upon the upper deck of the airship.
"Take them below," ordered Dacres, "coil away this rope and make all snug, then clear upper deck."
Directly this was done the "Meteor" forged ahead and quickly settled down to her former pace.
As soon as the rescued men had been supplied with food and drink General Whittinghame asked them whether any steamer had passed them.
To this the master replied that one had, about four hours previously. His description of her left no doubt but that she was the craft which had picked up Durango and his companions from the waterlogged flying-boat.
"Do you know her name?" asked his questioner.
"No, señor, I do not. Do you, Enrico?"
The man addressed shook his head. Neither could his companion give a satisfactory answer. He remembered that it began with Q, and that the name of the port she belonged to was Boston.
"Good!" ejaculated Captain Whittinghame when, his brother had interpreted the information. "She's a Yankee. I don't suppose we shall have much trouble now. Four hours ago, eh? Allowing her eight knots at the very outside with this sea running we ought to overhaul her in less than half an hour. Tell those fellows not to worry. We will pay them well for the information and put them ashore at Panama, or else the first vessel we speak that will serve their purpose."
Vaughan had not over-estimated the time taken to overhaul the Boston tramp. Eighteen minutes after resuming the chase the look-out reported a column of smoke rising above the horizon. Four minutes later the sought-for vessel was plainly visible.
On her short rounded counter appeared the words "Quickstep, of Boston, Mass."
Being high in ballast she was rolling furiously. Cascades of water were pouring from her scuppers. Spray was flying in sheets over her bows and dashing against the wheel-house on the bridge, for owing to a sudden change of wind she was plugging almost dead into the teeth of the gale.
"It is impossible to communicate with her with this sea running," remarked Captain Whittinghame. "All we can do is to slow down and wait until the gale moderates."
As he spoke an oilskinned figure was observed to stagger out of the wheel-house and make his way to the starboard side of the bridge. Casting off the halliards leading to a block on a shroud between the two stumpy masts he hoisted a signal.
Owing to the direction of the wind it was for the time being impossible to read the flags, and it was not until the 'Meteor' forged ahead and was almost abeam of the tramp that Dacres could interpret the message.
"I—F—that's something to do with communicate," he announced. "Where's the code-book?"
"Here you are," replied Setchell rapidly turning over the pages.
"'I—F: I cannot stop to have any communication.' Like his impudence!"
"Or Durango's," added Whittinghame. "We cannot acknowledge, so we will mark time on the 'Quickstep.' How's the glass, Mr. Dacres?"
"Steady, sir, with a slight tendency to rise. This gale will soon blow itself out."
"Then the sooner the better," declared the Captain.
The rest of the day passed in tedious inaction Night fell, and the bow searchlights of the airship played incessantly upon the tramp. Day dawned and found, as Dacres had predicted, that the gale had expended itself, and although the seas still ran high, the angry waves were rapidly subsiding.
It was now safe for the "Meteor" to approach within hand-signalling distance. The officers and crew of the "Quickstep" were all on deck, curiously regarding the airship, but there were no signs of Durango and the two Valderians.
"What airship is that?" came from the tramp.
"The 'Meteor.'"
"We doubt it."
"But we are; if you'll heave-to and send a boat we will prove it."
"What do you want?"
"You have three men on board, rescued from a water-logged boat."
"What of it?"
"One is the outlaw, Durango."
"I guess not."
"You guess wrongly, then. Durango and two Valderians."
"Sure? He said he was a Britisher."
"We'll soon prove it if you send a boat."
"I will. We'll heave-to."
Captain Whittinghame slapped his brother on the back.
"At last!" he exclaimed.
BEFORE the "Meteor" could alight and throw out her huge sea-anchor the "Quickstep" had hove-to and was lowering a boat. Into the latter tumbled four lean-jawed men and a hatchet-faced youngster of about nineteen years of age.
There was no doubt about it: those New Englanders knew how to manage a boat in a seaway. Dexterously the falls were cast off, and bending to their oars the rowers made the whaler shoot over the long, heaving waves.
Before they had made twenty strokes the report of a pistol shot came from the tramp. Without a moment's hesitation her skipper jumped from the bridge without troubling to make use of the ladder, and bolted aft, followed by half a dozen of the deck hands.
It was not long before he was back on deck with a revolver in his hand. At his command one of the men signalled to the "Meteor."
"Sorry! You're right. Laid the skunk by the heels."
As soon as the "Quickstep's" boat came alongside the airship the lad in charge swarmed up the rope ladder and gained the deck.
"Guess you're the boss of this hyer packet?" he exclaimed. "I'm Silas P. Cotton, second mate of the S.S. 'Quickstep.' Shake."
Vaughan Whittinghame smiled and accepted the invitation. He extended his hand and shook the proffered tarry paw of the self-possessed young Boston man.
"That skunk Durango has been throwing dust into the old man's eyes," continued Silas P. Cotton. "So the boss has sent me to square things up. I reckon we've heard of the wonderful 'Meteor,' but we didn't calculate on her being so short in length."
"Neither did we," agreed Whittinghame. "Come to my cabin and let us hear about your three passengers. What will you have to drink?"
"Guess rum's my pizen, boss."
A jar of Navy rum that had been sent on board the "Meteor" by the fleet paymaster of one of the ships of Admiral Maynebrace's squadron was produced and uncorked. Filling half a tumbler with the dark spirit the second mate tossed it down at one gulp.
"Now, bizness, boss. This hyer Durango swore that he was a Britisher, and that the airship was one of those blarmed Valderian craft that wanted to lay him by the heels. Our skipper bit the bullet. Sez he: 'There ain't no British airship of that size off this hyer coast; I'll reckon we'll have no truck with that one. I don't want no greasers on my hooker.' So he ordered the helm to be put up, leaving you lying on the water as you are doing now. Durango—Mister Turner of London, he said he was—had heaps of dollars and offered to square up handsome-like if the 'old man' would land him at Guayaquil. The boss said the best he could do was to put him ashore at Panama. With that the skunk seemed right down sick, for he went below to the berth we'd given him, and wouldn't stir."
"Do you happen to know if he had any papers on him?"
"Rolls of paper dollars," replied the second mate. "That's all, I guess. What do you say to coming aboard and seeing how the old man has fixed him up?"
"With pleasure," said Whittinghame. "I hope you won't mind if two of my officers accompany me?"
"Guess they'll get a wet shirt apiece if they ain't particularly slick in getting aboard," replied Silas P. Cotton with a grin.
"Come along, Gerald; and you, too, Mr. Dacres," said the Captain. "We may as well——"
"Message just been signalled from the 'Quickstep,' sir," reported Callaghan. "Captain Gotham asks you to come aboard and bring pistols with you."
"Then, all the fun is not yet over," exclaimed Vaughan Whittinghame. "Take arms, gentlemen. Durango evidently means to give as much trouble as possible."
As the boat ran alongside the "Quickstep" another shot rang out from below. Thinking that there was no time to be lost Vaughan Whittinghame seized hold of the man-ropes and, ably supported by his comrades and the whaler's crew, gained the deck.
To his surprise Whittinghame found Captain Gotham, with his hands thrust deeply into his pockets, leaning against the after guard-rail of the bridge. A huge cigar was jammed tightly betwixt his teeth, and his peaked cap raked at an alarming angle.
"G'day, gentlemen," he exclaimed without attempting to remove his cigar. "Guess you've come to take that wild critter off my hands? Great snakes! If I had a-known he was a low-down Mexican greaser I'd thought twice before he set foot on this hooker."
"Where is he?" asked Whittinghame.
"In the mate's cabin. He's locked himself in, you bet. Thorssenn tried to boost open the door, but the sarpint let fly some. Thorssenn's got more than he can chew, I reckon."
"Was he hit?"
"Clean through the shoulder, boss. Say, how are you going about it?"
Going below and making their way along the narrow alley-way the two Whittinghames and Dacres approached the place where Durango had taken refuge. The hard-visaged Yankee skipper and Silas P. Cotton, not to be outdone in the business of securing the renegade, also joined the attacking party.
Through the cabin door two small jagged holes marked the tracks of Durango's shots. One bullet was embedded in the panelling on the opposite side of the alley-way; the other the unfortunate first mate was nursing in his shoulder.
"The game's up, Durango," said Captain Whittinghame sternly. "You cannot escape, so surrender."
The Mexican's reply was to send another shot through the door, the bullet whizzing between Vaughan and the sub.
The attackers promptly backed out of the danger zone.
"Say, why not let rip at him altogether?" asked Captain Gotham, raising his heavy Colt revolver.
"We want him alive," replied Vaughan Whittinghame. "I cannot explain now, but he's worth more alive than dead."
"Then aim low and cripple the skunk," rejoined the skipper bluntly. "If we've got to wait till he's starved out I reckon we'll be in the latitude of Cape Hatteras before he bails up. Say, what's your programme?"
"Have you a piece of boiler-plate handy?"
"You bet," drawled the Yankee, blowing out a cloud of smoke through his nose, for the cigar was still tightly held between his teeth. "Cut away, sonny, and tell Andrews to send up a piece of biler plate as much as one man can hold—git."
With remarkable agility Silas P. Cotton, who had been addressed as "sonny," made off to carry out the old man's orders. Presently he returned, staggering under the weight of a slightly curved three-sixteenths plate.
Using this as a shield Whittinghame, Dacres, and the master of the "Quickstep" exerted their whole weight and strength against the comparatively frail door. It creaked, but refused to give. The Mexican had barricaded it with the first mate's furniture and bedding.
Durango let fly another shot. The ping of the lead against the boiler-plate told its own tale. He fired again, this time low down. The bullet cut a groove in the Yankee's sea-boots and caused that worthy to let fly a string of oaths.
"Guess I'm master of my own ship!" he shouted. "Who tells Captain Gotham not to use his shooting arms? Here goes."
He raised his revolver and sent six shots in rapid succession through the door. Then he listened, only to skip and dodge behind the iron plate as another bullet cut the peak of his cap.
"Have you any sulphur on board, captain?" asked Dacres, as the American was about to reload.
"Sulphur? Wal, I guess I have some."
"Then we'll smoke him out," continued the sub. "All we want is a brazier and some short lengths of copper pipe and a pair of bellows."
"Bully for you!" exclaimed Captain Gotham enthusiastically. "Git, sonny, and tell Andrews to lay out with the gear."
Off hurried the second mate, to return accompanied by the engineer, a man as lantern-jawed as the rest of the officers of the "Quickstep." With him came a deckhand, who, under Cotton's orders, had stove in a barrel of sulphur.
Soon the yellow rock-like substance was burning. Its pungent fumes caused water to run from the eyes of the operators. More than once during their preparations they had to beat a hurried retreat and gasp for breath in the open air.
At length two pipes were inserted through the shot-holes in the door; the bellows were filled with reeking fumes and discharged through the pipes.
Durango began to cough. The men without could hear him fumbling with the things he had used to barricade the door, with the intention of plugging the pipes and preventing the invasion of the sulphur fumes. Again the attackers hurled themselves against the woodwork. The Mexican realized that he had either to abandon the barricade or submit to be smoked out.
Sheltered behind the boiler-plate Dacres vigorously plied the bellows. After five minutes a strange silence prevailed. Gerald Whittinghame, risking the chance of being shot, peeped through one of the bullet-holes in the upper part of the woodwork.
The interior of the cabin was full of yellow vapour. He could discern the Mexican. Durango had his face jammed up against the open scuttle.
"Tarnation thunder!" ejaculated Captain Gotham. "I fair forgot that scuttle. Keep the pot bilen', boss."
With this injunction the master of the "Quickstep" made his way to the poop deck and peered over the rail. He could see the tip of Durango's nose projecting beyond the rim of the scuttle, while clouds of sulphur fumes wafted past the Mexican's head and eddied along the ship's side.
"Lower that fender—look alive, there!" ordered Captain Gotham.
Two men dragging a huge globular rope fender lowered it over the side and adjusted it so that it blocked the Mexican's sole means of obtaining fresh air. He immediately pushed the obstruction aside with his knife.
The Yankee skipper was not to be baulked. A long handspike was procured; one end was wedged between the lower part of a convenient davit and the vessel's side; a tackle was clapped on to the other end and bowsed taut, thus jamming the fender hard against the scuttle.
The end was now in sight. Durango was gasping for breath.
"Will you surrender?" demanded Captain Whittinghame.
There was no answer.
The attacking party waited a few moments longer. There was a dull thud upon the cabin floor. Still suspecting that this was a ruse on the part of the trapped man they waited another minute, then the door was burst open.
The rush of sulphurous air almost capsized them. Dacres, tying a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, crawled in. His hands encountered the Mexican's resistless form. With a heave he dragged him into the alley-way. Other hands relieved him of his burden and carried Durango on deck.
"Dead?" asked Gerald Whittinghame.
"Snakes don't die easy," grunted Captain Gotham. "Take him away, boss, and welcome to him."
The unconscious form of Durango was lowered out into the "Quickstep's" whaler. The British officers shook hands with the Yankee skipper as they prepared to go over the side.
"One moment, boss," said the latter. "Guess you know I've got those two Valderians aboard?"
"Yes," assented Vaughan. "Can you give five men a passage to Panama? I'll see that you are not out of pocket by it."
"Five?" queried Captain Gotham.
"Yes, these two Valderians and three men of a Galapagos boat we picked up just now. Will fifty dollars be sufficient?"
"Guess that'll fix 'em up, cap. Send the others along."
Twenty minutes later the airship and the tramp parted company, the "Quickstep" to flounder along at a sedate eight knots, while the "Meteor," with Durango in safe keeping, was speeding aloft at ninety miles an hour, homeward bound at last.
WHEN Reno Durango recovered from the stupifying effects of the sulphur he found himself in a cabin destitute of furniture and securely locked and barred. He knew by the peculiar undulating motion that he was on board an airship. Then the truth flashed across his mind: he was in the hands of his rivals.
Rage and despair filled his heart. At one moment he thought of dashing his head against the metal bulkhead of the cabin; at another he contemplated putting an end to his existence and evading well-merited punishment by strangling himself. But his nerve failed him. Never backward in delighting to cause pain to the unfortunate wretches who had fallen into his hands at various times, he shrank from inflicting the slightest injury upon himself.
His frenzied thoughts were interrupted by the entry of Captain Whittinghame, Dacres, and Dr. Hambrough.
The Englishmen had not come to gloat over their captive; the doctor was there in his official capacity of surgeon of the "Meteor," while the others were there in case the Mexican should become violent.
"Well, my man, how do you feel now?" asked the doctor in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were addressing a hospital patient.
Durango's reply was to roll his yellow eyes and thrust out his leathery under lip. He wanted to curse his captors, but blind rage held him speechless.
Deftly Dr. Hambrough took hold of his wrist. The Mexican, snarling like a wild beast, shook him off.
"I cannot do anything more for the patient at present," said the doctor suavely, and the three men turned to leave the prisoner to his own devices.
Just as Whittinghame, who was the last to leave, was backing out of the door—for he gave Durango no chance of making a sudden dash—the Mexican found his tongue.
"Curse you, Whittinghame!" he shouted with a torrent of oaths. "If I had thrown those plans overboard instead of stowing them in under the boat's fore-deck, I'd have the laugh of you yet."
Vaughan Whittinghame made no reply, but pushing Dacres across the threshold he closed and relocked the door.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed delightedly. "Durango's let the cat out of the bag. He imagines that we have already found the plans."
"Let's hope it won't be long before we do," rejoined the sub, and the three men hastened to search the hull of the flying-boat.
The "Meteor's" speed was materially reduced to enable the searchers to go on deck, where the boat was made fast to four strong ring-bolts.
Leaping over her coamings Dacres dived under the fore-deck. The place had already been cleared out, but on each side a skirting had been fastened to the ribs to within a foot of the deck-beams.
The sub thrust his hand into one of the spaces thus formed. He could feel nothing. The second gave no better result, but in the third his fingers came in contact with some moist paper.
Carefully withdrawing his band the sub found that he had recovered a bundle of documents tied with red tape. Although damp they were little the worse for their adventures in sea and air.
"Hurrah!" shouted Dacres. "We've discovered the object of our search, sir. Here are the submarine plans."
* * * * *
The great Naval Review at Spithead was over. On board H.M.S. "Foudroyant," the flagship of the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Hardy Staplers, a grand dinner was being held. The flag-officers and captains of the various divisions and ships, the principal military officers of the garrison of Portsmouth, and the heads of the Dockyard establishments were present.
After the customary loyal toast had been proposed and duly honoured, Sir Hardy rose to reply to the toast of The Navy.
The Commander-in-Chief was by no means a fluent speaker, but when he "warmed up" to his subject he lost all sense of time. His speech was practically a résumé of the vast strides that the British Navy had made during his lengthy career. At last he spoke of the Flying Wing:—
"Gentlemen, I need say but little more (the majority of his listeners heaved an inward sigh of relief). We now know of the sterling work performed by the subsidized airship 'Meteor.' When the time comes for that noble craft to be taken over by H.M. Government—and I venture to assert that the day is not far distant—our Flying Wing will have a unit that is second to none.
"It is a matter of regret that the 'Meteor' was not present at the memorable display at Spithead to-day. As all of you are no doubt aware the latest dispatches from Zandovar stated that the airship left in pursuit of the outlaw, Durango. A week has elapsed and no further news of her has been forthcoming. Personally, I do not think we need labour under any misapprehension as to her safety; but at the same time the silence—especially in this age of wireless—is somewhat inexplicable. An airship that could with safety undertake at short notice a successful dash to the North Pole (hear, hear!) can be relied upon to take care of herself. Therefore, I feel confident in expressing my opinion that before many hours have elapsed news will be received from the Senior Officers at Zandovar announcing the return of the Dreadnought of the Air from yet another successful mission.
"One more point I should like to mention, and that is the great changes in the near future in in engineering. I refer to the cordite motors as carried in the 'Meteor.' It is, of course, too early to predict with certainty that cordite will be the fuel used on our great battleships in place of oil, but to a great extent the era of the coal and oil-fed furnace is doomed."
Now, it so happened that amongst the guests was Engineer-Captain Camshaft, an engineering officer of the old school, who swore by triple-expansion engines, took ungraciously to turbine machinery, and scoffed at internal combustion engines. He was particularly scathing in his opinion of cordite as fuel for propulsion, and had offered to bet any of his brother-officers that the "Meteor" would never return to England under her own power. Perhaps he had had more champagne than was good for him; at anyrate, at this point of Sir Hardy's speech, he exclaimed in a "stage aside," "Question."
A deadly silence prevailed in the crowded ward-room. The protest was plainly audible, yet save for Camshaft's immediate neighbour, no one knew who had had the temerity to contradict the Commander-in-Chief.
"Did I hear some one say 'Question'?" asked Sir Hardy with his customary urbanity.
The culprit recognized that he had overstepped the bounds. It meant that his future career was in jeopardy, especially as it was freely mooted that Sir Hardy Staplers was shortly to be made First Sea Lord of the Admiralty.
Fortunately the engineer-captain was a man of resource in such matters.
"Beg pardon, Sir Hardy," he exclaimed thickly, "I said unquestionably—unquestionably."
A badly suppressed titter ran round the table. The situation was saved.
"Yes, of course," agreed the Commander-in-Chief blandly. "Now I quite understand; you said 'unquestionably', Captain Camshaft."
Before Sir Hardy could resume the thread of his lengthy discourse a voice on deck was heard hailing "Boat ahoy!"
Loud and clear came the reply that electrified every member of that convivial dinner-party:—
"Meteor!"
The Commander-in-Chief's speech was never finished. Following Sir Hardy's example the officers and their guests rushed upon the quarter-deck and crowded to the starboard guard-rails.
They were just in time to see a motor-boat of unusual design run alongside the accommodation-ladder. The glare of the electric lamps fell upon the bronzed features of Captain Vaughan Whittinghame and Sub-lieutenant Basil Dacres.
"How in the name of wonder!" exclaimed the astonished Commander-in-Chief.
"We've brought two-fifths of the original 'Meteor' back, sir," reported Whittinghame. "She's lying off the Warner Lightship. Our wireless is out of gear, or we would have reported our progress. Durango is a prisoner on board; and here, sir, are the plans of the 'M' class of submarines."
* * * * *
Shortly before lunch-time on the following morning Basil Dacres—specially promoted by virtue of an Order-in-Council to the rank of commander (Flying Squadron, Naval Wing) of His Majesty's Fleet—arrived at his father's country residence, Cranbury House.
"Governor in, Sparkes?" he asked as the footman opened the door and stared with amazement at the "young master." Years of training had steeled Sparkes to most shocks, but this time he was completely taken aback.
"Yes, Mr. Basil, Colonel Dacres has just come in. He's been out rabbit-shooting, sir."
"Then don't tell him who I am," cautioned Dacres. "Take in this card and say that someone wishes to see him."
Sparkes took the pasteboard and vanished. Half way up the stairs he paused to look at the card.
"Mr. Basil's up to some of his pranks, I'll be bound," he said to himself. "Hope to goodness the master doesn't jaw me for it."
"Gentleman to see you, sir," he announced.
Colonel Dacres took the card and read,
"Commander Basil Dacres, R.N."
"Commander Basil Dacres, R.N.," he repeated. "Wonder who the deuce he is? Some distant relation, I suppose, after something or the other. Sparkes, where's the Navy List?"
"You lent it to Admiral Padbury the morning before last, sir," replied the footman smartly.
"So I did, Sparkes, so I did. Never mind. I'll see this gentleman. Where is he, Sparkes?"
"In the green room, sir."
"What sort of a man is he?"
The footman coughed to clear his throat, and nearly broke a blood-vessel in striving to suppress a grin.
"Cannot say as how I took particular stock of him, sir; but he's a smartish-looking gentleman, sir."
"Then he must belong to our branch of the family," thought the colonel complacently. "But dash it all, what does he want to come just before tiffin for?"
Colonel Dacres waited to put a few finishing touches, then hastened downstairs to conceal, under a guise of cordiality, any traces of his annoyance at being disturbed before lunch.
To his unbounded astonishment he found himself confronted by his son, whom he supposed to be still on board H.M.S. "Royal Oak" off Zandovar. He could only come to one conclusion—a hastily formed one—on the situation: Basil had been in trouble, and had turned up, in spite of his parent's fiat, like a bad halfpenny.
"What's the meaning of this, sir?" he demanded, holding up the card. "Are there no limits to your senseless pranks? I had hoped when that Valderian business took place that you might have proved yourself worthy of the name of Dacres. Instead of that you turn up with a handle to your name to which you have no right. Explain yourself, sir."
"It's all right, dad," said the youthful commander coolly.
"But it isn't all right. I——"
"Steady on, pater! You've asked me a lot of questions; give me a chance to reply. In the first place there is a limit to my pranks, and I don't mean to exceed it. Secondly, I was in the Valderian affair; thirdly, I came home because the 'Meteor' brought me home; fourthly and lastly, I am really a commander in His Majesty's Fleet, my appointment being dated at the Admiralty yesterday."
"'Meteor?'" repeated the colonel. "You were on the 'Meteor'? I knew nothing of this."
"Naturally, sir. Our mission was a confidential one. Even Rear-Admiral Maynebrace was in ignorance of who formed her crew until we pulled him out of the Cavarale."
"Were you the officer who was reported to have distinguished himself in rescuing the Admiral, then?" asked Colonel Dacres amazedly.
"Yes, sir; but the newspaper reports may have been exaggerated. They often are," declared Dacres modestly. "But the fact remains that I am specially promoted, for which I have to thank Captain Whittinghame, who has been made Commandant of the Airship Section; the 'Meteor' is to undergo a hasty refit and reconstruction—we left three-fifths of her in different places, you know—and after that—well, we must hope for something fairly exciting to turn up. For the present I have three weeks' leave."
"Leave!" echoed the colonel. "Won't you have to give evidence at the trial of Durango?"
"Yes, I suppose so," replied the young commander. "He is to be indicted on a list of charges as long as my arm. However, I am not at all keen on that part of the business. Hunting him down was exciting enough, but now the rascal is laid by the heels I wish I could regard the incident as closed. After a turn at active service in the air a fellow doesn't want to descend to the stuffy atmosphere of the Law Courts. I want to be up and doing, in a double sense, pater; I feel as keen as mustard."
"Basil, my boy, I'm afraid I've misjudged you."
"I don't think so, pater; I believe that once or twice you've blamed me for practical jokes I didn't play, but that's a mere detail. The mater's teapot, for example."
"I don't mean in that way," continued the colonel. "I thought that you might let your chances slip through your fingers, but, by Jove! you're a true Dacres after all."
"Thank you, pater," said the young commander simply.
THE END
THE END
THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND
THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND
THE LONDON AND NORWICH PRESS LIMITED, LONDON AND NORWICH, ENGLAND
Transcriber's note:The original text contained a number of obvious spelling and typographic errors. They have been corrected without note. Inconsistent spellings and typographical errors have been preserved as printed.These are:- "Chili" and "Chile" both occur- "Equadorean" instead of "Equadorian"