Part 3 (2/2)

In two hours, the trawlers having swept the whole extent of the Would, the minefield was reported to be destroyed.

”What damage ash.o.r.e?” enquired Crosthwaite, as the nearest trawler sidled under the destroyer's stern.

”Precious little, sir, considering,” replied the master of the mine-sweeper. ”A few buildings knocked about and a score or so of people killed or injured. Might ha' been worse,” and he shook his fist in the direction in which the raiders had fled.

Sedately, as if conscious of having modestly performed a gallant service, the mine-sweepers bore up for home, and once again the _Calder_ was left to stand by her prize.

She was not long left alone. A number of motor patrol-boats came buzzing round like flies round a honey-pot. The work of transferring the German prisoners was quickly taken in hand. They were put on board the patrol-boats in batches of half a dozen. It saved the destroyer the trouble of putting into port when she was supposed to hold no communication with the sh.o.r.e.

The last of the motor-boats had brought up alongside the _Calder_ when Sefton recognized the R.N.R. sub-lieutenant in charge as an old friend of pre-war days.

Algernon Stickleton was a man whose acquaintance with the sea was strictly limited to week-ends spent on board the Motor Yacht Club's headquarters--the ex-Admiralty yacht _Enchantress_--in Southampton Water. Given a craft with engines, he could steer her with a certain amount of confidence. Of navigation and the art of a mariner he knew little or nothing. Tides were a mystery to him, the mariner's compa.s.s an unknown quant.i.ty. In short, he was a marine motorist--the counterpart of the motor road-hog ash.o.r.e.

Upon the outbreak of war, commissions in the R.N.R. motor-boat service were flung broadcast by the Admiralty at the members of the Motor Yacht Club, and amongst those who donned the pilot-coat with the gold wavy band and curl was Algernon Stickleton. At first he was given a ”soft job”, doing a sort of postman's work in Cowes Roads, until the experience, combined with his success in extricating himself, more by good luck than good management, from a few tight corners, justified the experiment of granting a commission to a comparatively callow marine motorist.

Then he was put through a rapid course of signalling and elementary navigation, and, having ”stuck at it”, the budding sub-lieutenant R.N.R.

was sent to the East Coast on a motor-yacht with the prospect of being given a fast patrol-boat when deemed proficient.

Gone were those halcyon August and September days in Cowes Roads. He had to take his craft out by day and night, blow high or low. Boarding suspicious vessels in the open roadstead hardened his nerves and gave an unwonted zest to his work. At last he was doing something definite--taking an active part in the navy's work.

”My first trip in this hooker, old man,” he announced to Sefton, indicating with a sweep of his hand the compact, grey-painted motor craft that lay alongside the destroyer's black hull. ”A clinker for speed. She'd knock your craft into a c.o.c.ked hat. It beats Brooklands hollow. Wants a bit of handlin', don't you know, but I think I brought her alongside very nicely, what?”

The last of the German prisoners having been received on board and pa.s.sed below to the forepeak, Sub-lieutenant Stickleton prepared to cast off. Touching the tarnished peak of his cap, for months of exposure to all weathers had dimmed the pristine l.u.s.tre of the once resplendent headgear, he gave the word for the motors to be started.

Then, with one hand on the steering-wheel, he let in the clutch.

Like an arrow from a bow the powerful box of machinery leapt forward.

The result was disastrous as far as Stickleton was concerned.

Unprepared to counteract the sudden momentum, he was literally ”left”, for, subsiding upon the short after-deck, he rolled backwards over the transom and fell into the boiling wake of the rapidly-moving motor-boat.

Fortunately he could swim well, and was quickly hauled over the destroyer's side, a dripping but still cheerful object.

Several of the _Calder's_ crew laughed outright. Even Crosthwaite and Sefton had to smile. The sopping R.N.R. officer was quick to enter into the joke against himself.

”Hope I won't get reprimanded for leaving my s.h.i.+p without permission,”

he remarked facetiously.

”You haven't asked permission to board mine,” Crosthwaite reminded him.

”It's the custom of the service, you know.”

Meanwhile attention was being transferred from the dripping officer to the craft of which he ought to be in command. Evidently her crew were unaware of what had occurred. The bowman was coiling down a rope, two of the deck hands were engaged in securing the fore-peak hatchway, while the rest were down below. The patrol-boat was tearing along at 38 knots, and, owing to the ”torque” of the propellers, was describing a vast circle to port.

It was the cabin-boy who first made the discovery that the little craft was without a guiding hand at the wheel. He was down below tidying up the sub's cabin, when he found an automatic cigarette-lighter that Stickleton had mislaid. Anxious to get into his superior officer's good books, for the youngster was the bane of Stickleton's existence on board, the boy ascended the short ladder leading to the c.o.c.kpit. To his surprise he found no helmsman.

<script>