The Submarine Hunters by Percy F. Westerman (ebook pc reader txt) 📖

way on foot to the Essex coast. There, he had means to get on board a nominally British fishing-boat, which would run him over to a Dutch port.

Although the motor-cycle was travelling at close on forty miles an hour, Ramblethorne glanced back over his shoulder. He hardly expected to be pursued. If the car had turned to attempt to overhaul him, it would almost to a certainty take the wider of the two fork roads—that leading to Wellington.

Disagreeably surprised, the spy saw the two powerful head-lights of the car less than a mile behind him.

The chauffeur of the pursuing vehicle had set his heart on winning the promised guerdon. "All out" the car bounded along the road, leaving in its trail a dense cloud of dust that slowly dispersed in the moon-lit air.

Hanging on desperately to the sides of the swaying car, Ferret and the two lads knelt upon the front seat of the coupe and peered through the dust-flecked glass at the solitary motor-cyclist in front. They were gaining—rapidly at first, but now the gap between lessened almost imperceptibly.

At that tremendous rate, the bursting of a tyre would result in complete disaster, yet not one thought did the pursuers give to the danger they were running. Their sole attention was centred upon the spy.

A sharp bend close to the village of Cressage enabled the car to get within fifty yards of the motor-cyclist. Hawke drew a revolver from his pocket. The chauffeur noticed the action out of the corner of his eye. Purposely he toyed with the sensitive steering-wheel, causing the car to swerve erratically.

"Put it up, sir!" he exclaimed, shouting in order to make himself heard above the roar of the wind over the screen. "If you bring him down we'll smash up on top of him before we can pull up. We'll have him on Harley Bank right enough."

A sharp run down through the village of Harley brought the car within sight of a very steep hill, up which the road wound like a silver thread against the black slope. This was Harley Bank, one of the steepest of many stiff Shropshire hills, its gradient averaging one in seven.

Up mounted the motor-cycle. Ramblethorne was attempting to take it on high gear.

The chauffeur of the car took no risks. He promptly dropped into second gear, with the result that the gap between them increased to nearly a hundred yards. Then the motor-cycle began to falter. Perhaps Ramblethorne was not thoroughly acquainted with the mechanism of the two-speed. By the time he got the friction-clutch into action the car had more than regained the lost distance—and the fugitive had not yet reached the stiffest part of the hill.

"Head him off—jam him up against that bank!" ordered Hawke.

"What for, sir?" asked the chauffeur. He had no objection to taking part in a midnight chase, but his sense of prudence told him that it was not advisable to deliberately smash up another vehicle.

"He's a spy," replied Hawke. "Don't hesitate. I will take all risks."

Fifteen seconds later the near front wheel of the car was abreast of Ramblethorne's back wheel. Hawke leant sideways with the intention of gripping the motor-cyclist by the collar, since the relative speeds were practically the same. At the same moment the car edged a little closer to the left-hand side of the road.

Ramblethorne realized the danger. A collision would with almost certainty result in his receiving a broken neck; capture meant ignominious death at the hands of a firing-party. There was yet a third alternative—a dash for safety.

He threw out the clutch and applied both brakes, at the same time bringing the motor-cycle on to the grassy bank. He alighted on all fours, but almost immediately regained his feet. The car was already twenty yards on ahead and still in gear.

He grasped his cycle by the handle-bars and raised it from its recumbent position. One look showed that the glancing impact had bent the front forks. The machine was no longer rideable. Without hesitation he sprang up the bank. As he did so he heard the footfalls of his pursuers.

"Be steady!" cautioned Ferret, as Ross and Vernon alighted from the car. "He may be armed. We're the people to take the brunt of it—not you."

They were now within a few feet of the summit of the road, which at this spot ran through the hill by means of a cutting. Close by were three excavations. Someone had evidently attempted to commence quarrying there, but had abandoned the undertaking. As far as the detective could conclude, these pits formed the only possible hiding-place in the vicinity.

"Hist!" exclaimed Hawke, holding up one hand to enjoin silence.

All was still. No sound of stealthily retreating footsteps reached their ears. Hawke knelt down and placed one ear to the ground.

"Someone breathing pretty hard," he whispered. "He can't be very far away; in one of these holes most likely. Perhaps he's hurt himself."

An investigation of the first possible hiding-place produced no result. At the second Ross heard a long-drawn sigh, emanating from a patch of bushes and tall grass.

"Here you are!" he exclaimed.

The place was in shadow, yet he could discern some dark object lying at full length in the midst of the grass.

In a trice the two detectives threw themselves upon their prey. For an instant the man struggled wildly. Ross and his chum joined in the fray, each hanging on desperately to his plunging legs. Ignominiously he was dragged from his place of concealment into the bright moonlight.

Ferret was the first to give a gasp of astonishment. Their victim was not Ramblethorne the spy, but a powerfully built tramp, who, finding himself released, began to expostulate with alarming vehemence.

"Stop that!" exclaimed Hawke authoritatively. "We are police officers. If you don't behave we'll take you in charge for sleeping out without visible means."

The fellow, cowed into silence, slunk away.

"Confound it!" ejaculated Ferret. "We've let Ramblethorne slip away under our very noses. He'll be clear by this time."

"I'm afraid so," agreed Hawke ruefully; then turning to the chauffeur he told him to drive into the nearest village, which happened to be Much Wenlock.

Here Ross and Vernon were able to secure a room at an inn, while the Scotland Yard men were busy at the little police station, getting a description of the spy issued through the countryside.

Next morning the lads set out on their return journey to Killigwent Hall.

CHAPTER XV The Admiral Works the Oracle

"Look here, old man; what do you say about having a shot for the Naval Reserve?" asked Ross. "In ordinary circs I would be prepared to go through Sandhurst, but this isn't ordinary circs. Before we pass out, the war will be over perhaps."

"I'd rather like to see something of the fun," agreed Vernon.

"As if we hadn't already," added his chum. "But I know what you mean. Instead of being cooped up in an unterseeboot and hunted by our fellows, we want to have a hand in rounding up the German submarines. I vote we write to our respective governors about it."

This conversation occurred two days after the lads' return to Killigwent Hall. They had been given up as lost, and their unexpected return had caused unbounded rejoicings. Pressmen thronged the Hall to gather "exclusive" information of the manner of their seemingly miraculous rescue, but both Ross and Vernon were determined not to satisfy outside curiosity. They even kept the story of how the white flag fluttered down from the signalling mast of U75 from their immediate friends.

"It will take a long time for us to get a reply," objected Vernon. "By the time the letters hang about at the G.P.O., before they are sent to the fleet, a week will elapse, and before we get a reply bang goes a whole fortnight. Let's get hold of a Navy List and see what the qualifications are."

A careful perusal of the regulations resulted in a setback. Midshipmen in the R.N.R., they found, had to be between 16 and 18 years of age, and must either have passed through a course of instruction for two years on board an "approved" training ship, or else one year on board a first-class British merchant ship.

"That's put the hat on it," declared Ross.

"One minute," interposed Vernon. "Why not write to Admiral Garboard? He's an old shipmate of my governor's, and I know he's a bit of a pot up at Whitehall, although he's on the Retired List."

"He was with my pater in the old Rhodaphlare on the China station," added Ross. "We'll try; the wheeze might work."

Accordingly Vernon wrote to the Admiral, who lived about twenty miles from Killigwent Hall. Promptly came Sir Peter Garboard's reply:

"TRELANGKERRICK,"
CORNWALL.

"DEAR VERNON,

"In reply to your letter I am sorry that I cannot help you in the matter to which you refer, unless you and your friend can produce sufficient evidences of qualifications for the desired posts.

"On principle I object to influence in any shape or form. Entry into any branch of the Service should, like promotion, depend solely upon the aptitude and ability of a candidate. This has been my standpoint throughout the whole of my career, and I see no reason why I should now depart from it.

"If, however, you think you have strong reasons for pressing your claims, and you care to see me, we will go more fully into the matter.

"Believe me,
"Yours faithfully,
"PETER GARBOARD."

"Not so dusty," commented Ross. "He does leave us a loophole, although I'm afraid we'll have to blow our own trumpets. I vote we cycle over at once. We'll catch him in just before lunch."

"Better wait until after he's had his grub," said Vernon. "That's always the time to get a man in a good humour."

"We'll risk that," declared young Trefusis. "Come on."

It was a very hilly twenty miles run across the moors to Trelangkerrick. Starting at ten in the morning it took the lads two hours and a quarter, in the face of a strong south-westerly breeze, to cover the distance.

Half-way up the drive, they saw the Admiral and a companion emerging from a path leading from the kennels.

"Hulloa!" exclaimed Sir Peter cordially, as he recognized Vernon Haye. "So you haven't marked time in coming to see me. This is young Trefusis, I presume? Glad to meet you. Knew your father very well back in the 'eighties. Hope to renew the acquaintance soon, you know. If it hadn't been for the war——"

Admiral Garboard had taken Trelangkerrick only since the declaration of hostilities; consequently he had had no opportunity of meeting Admiral Trefusis, who, since July of the previous year, had been continuously "somewhere in the North Sea".

"Cecil, my boy," he continued, addressing his companion, a tall, sunburnt man, in shooting garb although his clean-shaven features and slightly rolling gait proclaimed him to be a sailor. "Let me introduce the sons of two of my old shipmates to you. Ross Trefusis and Vernon Haye—my nephew, Cecil Bourne. You'll stay to lunch, of course. Cecil's on three days' leave. He's not satisfied with hunting German submarines, but must needs go after my rabbits."

They walked towards the house, Ross and Bourne leading, and the Admiral and Vernon bringing up the rear.

"We'll discuss this little matter after lunch, my boy," remarked the Admiral.

The meal proceeded without a hitch, the Admiral in his breezy way relating anecdote after anecdote of the Service in the good old days.

"By the by," he remarked, "what's this yarn I hear about your neighbour, Dr. Ramblethorne? There's a report that a warrant has been issued for his arrest."

"For espionage, I believe," replied Vernon.

"Bless my soul! Is that a fact? One doesn't know whom to trust in these days. No details, I suppose. A decent fellow, too, from what I saw of him. No, I don't think you've met him, Cecil, at least not here. By the by, you might tell the boys about your little adventure up-Channel in the Tremendous."

Ross and Vernon turned very red in the face, but as they sat with