Part 17 (2/2)

Decent weather, eh?”

”Not so bad for our men in the North Sea,” remarked Crosthwaite complacently. ”They've had a long, rotten winter, although d.i.c.k never complains on that score. Must be quite yachty weather, I should imagine,” he added, with the memories of a certain pleasure cruise to the Baltic in June flas.h.i.+ng across his mind.

He picked up a morning paper from a settee and glanced at it. He had read the selfsame news fourteen hours previously. Yet a paragraph had hitherto escaped his notice.

”By Jove!” he exclaimed.

”What's that?” enquired the admiral.

”Suppose, after all, it's nothing much,” observed General Crosthwaite.

”Masters of neutral steamers arriving at Danish ports state that they sighted numerous wrecks and hundreds of floating corpses. Another Reuter yarn, I take it.”

”More U-boat frightfulness perhaps,” hazarded Admiral Sefton.

And yet the report was a mild form of paving the way towards the announcement of the Jutland battle. This was on Friday. Already Germany had claimed a glorious and colossal naval victory, and the tardiness of the British Government in giving the lie direct to the boastful Hunnish claims gave, at least temporarily, a severe shock to neutrals' belief in the invincibility of Britain's sea power. Already American pro-German papers had appeared with highly coloured accounts of Great Britain's crus.h.i.+ng naval disaster; cartoons depicting John Bull's consternation at the return of the battered British lion with a badly twisted tail spoke volumes for the incontestable superiority of the German navy.

Happily ignorant of the disquieting rumours, and, indeed, of any knowledge of the naval action, the motorists slept soundly until eight on the following morning.

”Another fine day,” declared Crosthwaite Senior at breakfast. ”We ought to be home by three in the afternoon. Any papers yet?” he enquired of the waiter.

”No, sir, not until eleven,” was the reply.

”Must wait until we get to Gloucester, I suppose,” grunted the general.

”One of the penalties for stopping at a place on a branch line.”

”A fine little place, Pater,” remarked George. ”Absolutely top-hole.

Wish we were staying here. There's an awfully decent stream down there--looks just the place for fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Can't beat the Severn for that, my boy,” declared his father, loyal to his native town and the river that flows past its site. ”Buck up, my boy, and finish the packing. I want to see that that petrol-tank is properly filled--no unsealed cans, remember.”

George Crosthwaite was really a useful a.s.sistant to his parent.

Crosthwaite Senior frankly recognized the fact, but forbore from giving his son, personally, due credit, avowing that it was bad for discipline to be lavish with praise.

”Smart youngster, Sefton, my boy,” he declared in proud confidence to the admiral. ”He has his head screwed on the right way, although I suppose I ought not to brag about it. Have to be careful, though, that he doesn't kick over the traces just yet.”

It was nearly nine before the car was ready to resume its journey. In high spirits, for the bracing air and bright suns.h.i.+ne made a perfect day, the party set off.

Major-General Crosthwaite started at a strictly moderate pace. He invariably did; but it was always noticeable that, before he had covered many miles, he accelerated the speed until it reached a reckless pace bordering on fifty miles an hour. Towards the end of his day's journey, he would develop a speed that caused his sedate pa.s.sengers to quake with apprehension, and his youthful ones to revel in the terrific rush through the air.

Twenty minutes after leaving Malmesbury the car, now running splendidly, bounded up the steep ascent into old-world Tetbury. Here, taking a wrong turning, the motorists had to retrace their way, Crosthwaite Senior slowing down in order to avoid a similar mistake.

Presently Leslie caught sight of a placard displayed outside a news-agent's shop. In flaring red letters were the words: ”Big Naval Action in the North Sea”.

Leaning over the seat he gripped his father's arm. By this time the car was well beyond the shop.

”What's wrong?” bawled the admiral, for the wind-screen had been lowered and the breeze was whistling past his ears.

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