Chapter VII: The Start of an Adventure

The _Conklin_ left Queenstown just at dusk and steamed straight across the mouth of the channel, and at daybreak was skirting the tip of the Cornish coast, with the Scilly Islands faint blurs to the westward. Later they passed Lizard Head in a sea so smooth that it was hard to believe the tales they had heard all their lives of the treacherous nature of that coast. The frowning cliffs of Cornwall were in plain sight for an hour, and then the tall white tower of Eddystone Light rose off the port bow. The Pickle, who seemed for some reason to be a walking compendium of lighthouse information, entertained Dave and Pete with the story of the Admiralty’s attempts, dating back nearly a hundred and fifty years, to build a beacon on that sinister reef which, some ten miles from the nearest point of the mainland, stretches for hundreds of yards across the ship thoroughfare and obstructs the approach to Plymouth from the channel side. Many vessels have struck there. At one point the submerged ridge throws a few battered granite rocks above the eddying waves at low tide, from which fact came the name of “eddystones.”

“Away back at the beginning of things,” said The Pickle, gazing across at the slender tower, “a man whose name I forget got the notion that there ought to be a light on that reef and that he was the Johnny to put it there. So they told him to go ahead. Well, he stuck up a queer Chinese pagoda effect of wood and slathered it all over with carvings and gilt. Maybe his idea was to scare the waves away. Anyway, they say it was a fearsome looking contraption when it was done. It took him three or four years to do it, and when he had the wise guys around here said it wouldn’t stand the first hard gale. But this Johnny said he knew better and that he hoped he might be in the tower when that gale arrived. Every one gets his wish once in a lifetime, and it was this fellow’s turn to get his. When the gale did come he and five keepers were out there in the pagoda. When the folks in Plymouth looked out the next morning to see how the beacon had got through the storm there wasn’t any beacon.”

“Gee!” said Pete. “Did they drown?”

“So they suppose. Anyway, they weren’t around. After that another wooden tower went up and stayed quite a while; forty years, I think it was. It was built so well that it might be there yet if it hadn’t caught on fire from the lantern one day and burned down. They had trouble in building it that time because England and France were at war, and the French privateers kept them on the jump. One time a French boat caught them napping and took off the whole force as prisoners of war and carried them back to France. But when the king heard of it――Louis the Somethingth, I guess――he got peeved with the smart Alecks. ‘What those guys were doing was for our benefit as well as England’s. I’m at war with the perfidious Albion’――or words to that effect――‘but not with humanity.’ After which he handed himself a round of applause, had the smart Alecks put in the stocks and sent the lighthouse folks back to their little ledge with a lot of presents.”

“What sort of presents?” asked Dave.

“I don’t know; a couple of gold chains and a bag of ducats and a package of ‘fags,’ maybe; the usual thing. Read your history and find out. That was number two lighthouse. Number three was of stone and stood up about a hundred and twenty-five years. Then the cement began to go west and they put up the present light alongside it. This one is a hundred and thirty feet from base to light. Anything else I can tell you about lighthouses?”

“Yeah,” said Pete, “you can tell me how much lighthouse keeping costs in England compared with light housekeeping in New York.”

“New York? Lighthouse keep―― Oh, I get you, Pete! And that’ll be about all from you, son!”

Soon after they entered the English Channel, and during the day, keeping well in toward the English coast, passed numerous points of interest which, unfortunately, were too far distant to be more than faintly descried. Their course did, however, lead them close to the Isle of Wight and the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor. Pete made The Pickle’s life something of a burden to him by demanding information about every little lighthouse or beacon that they glimpsed. But if they saw little of the southern coast of England they saw a lot of the English navy in the shape of mine sweepers and layers, naval tugs, patrols, torpedo boats, destroyers, and cruisers. And once, off the Bill of Portland, they passed within a half mile of a super-dreadnought steaming sedately down channel, a huge and wicked-looking sea mammoth indeed.

There was a deal of speculation as to the _Conklin’s_ mission and destination and all sorts of guesses were made. The favorite one was that they were to rendezvous with a part of their own or the British fleet and make an attack on one of the German naval bases in the North Sea. Consequently, when, at dawn, they found the destroyer snugly anchored in the Thames estuary, with Taynham on one side and Sheppy Island on the other, they were a disappointed lot. Only the fact that London lay but forty miles distant by railway and the rumor that they were to stay where they were for several days, brought comfort. Nearby a group of small tugs and big launches were huddled around a stone quay from which a very busy signal station stuck up like a sore thumb. Now and then a tug or launch would put hurriedly away toward the sea, or a bevy of them would start off on some mysterious but evidently vastly important mission. There was no liberty for the destroyer’s gobs that day and they spent a rather bored time watching the various craft coming and going past the point of the island. The next morning they went on up to Chatham, where there was a considerable British naval base, and snuggled up to a dock, alongside a small black cruiser. Then it was made known that the _Conklin_ would remain at Chatham for two days and liberty was granted for thirty-six hours. Many took advantage of that to make the trip to London, and Dave and Pete were all for joining the party until they learned that The Pickle had other plans.

“You fellows go along,” said Dill. “It wouldn’t be much fun for me. I’ve seen the old town twice and, besides, I’m pretty nearly broke, and it costs like thunder to stay around London even over night.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” mused Pete. “I’m about stoney myself. How about you, Kid?”

“I can lend you a couple of dollars,” answered Dave. “Bob, too, if he will come. But I’m not horribly rich just now.”

“Maybe we’ll have another chance to see the place,” said Pete. “It wouldn’t be much fun without plenty o’ ‘berries.’ Ain’t there some other place around here?”

“Come with me,” said The Pickle. “I’ve got some English friends at a little town called Gradford, about forty or fifty miles from here in Sussex. I suppose they’re still there, because English folks never move the way we do, and they’d be mighty glad to see you fellows. What do you say?”

Pete looked dubious. “I ain’t much on the society game, Pickle,” he replied. “Better leave me out, I guess.”

“Nonsense, the Wylies are just nice plain folks and you’d like them immensely. We met them in Switzerland one year and they stayed with us at Westport a couple of weeks summer before last. They made me promise to visit them the first time I was in England.”

“Yeah, an’ bring all your friends,” said Pete sarcastically. “I guess they’d be awfully chawmed, what? Say, you piece o’ gear, don’t you know folks in this country can’t get enough to eat themselves, without feedin’ three hungry gobs?”

“Oh, I guess it isn’t that bad,” laughed The Pickle. “English folks always have plenty of parsnips on hand.”

“Parsnips. Gee, I never could eat parsnips. You and the Kid take a chance. I’m off of it.”

“No, you’re not. Listen, Pete. I asked a chap on the cruiser about Gradford and he says there’s a train at eleven as far as Rochester. Then you change and go to Maidstone, and from there to――I think it was Turnbridge he said. Anyway, you change again there and go right on to Gradford.”

“Well, it would be a change, all right,” chuckled Pete. “How long does all this take you? Would you get there to-day or to-morrow?”

“About four this afternoon, he thought.”

“Gee, forty miles in five hours! I’d be afraid to travel as fast as that.”

“I guess the connections aren’t very close,” explained The Pickle. “Come on! Be a sport, Pete! You’ll go, Kid?”

“I’d love it, but――it seems sort of cheeky, doesn’t it, Bob? Would we stay overnight?”

“Sure! They’d be tickled to death to have us. There’s only Mr. and Mrs. Wylie and a kid son and a girl about ten. Nice folks, fellows. You’ll like them. Go on and get into your dress togs and pretty yourselves up. I’ll find out about the liberty boat.”

“Yeah,” answered Pete. “I’ll be so pretty you won’t know me. Got any freckle lotion, Kid?”

At nine-thirty they were dumped on shore, with an hour and a half to wait before their train left. That, however, didn’t bother them. Chatham proved a busy town and they found much to interest them. Not long before a German air raid had passed over the little city, leaving death and devastation in its wake, and their wanderings led them to the marine barracks now in process of reconstruction, which had been bombed with a loss of over a hundred lives. Pete had a good deal to say on the subject of that particular kind of warfare, but, while not uninteresting, it was too emphatic to bear repetition. Their train crawled out of the station at 11 and they found themselves in a crowded third-class carriage. English railway travel was novel to both Dave and Pete, and their frank conversations amused The Pickle all the way to Rochester. Here they found that they were in for an hour’s wait for the next train, which was to take them as far as Maidstone. A communicative official explained that in pre-war times they would have gone right through, but that nowadays travel was “fair disrupted.” But they were all in holiday mood and didn’t mind the delay. Rochester appeared a quiet place after Chatham, but they explored so much of it as was not too far from the station and found plenty to see. The Maidstone train was late in leaving and it was one-thirty when they again changed. The station buffet supplied them with luncheon and at two-twelve they were on their way once more. There was one more change and one more wait, and finally, at just before five o’clock, they descended at a tiny station which the guard assured them was Gradford.

There was so little in sight from the platform save scenery that Pete cast a longing look after the disappearing train. An elderly man, who appeared to combine the duties of station agent, baggage agent and porter, listened to their inquiry with a hand cupped behind one ear. Then, in silence, he led them to the back of the station and pointed to a country road that went winding off toward the west.

“It be a matter o’ five mile,” he informed them. “Keep to that road till ’e come to another. Pay no heed to that, sirs, but keep straight along till ’e comes to a bridge. That be Gradbridge. The Wylies’ place be a mile beyond. Best ask your way, sirs, if so be you meet folks.”

“Five miles,” demurred The Pickle. “How about a carriage――I mean a trap?”

But the man shook his head, looking, Dave thought, a trifle disapproving. It appeared that there were no traps to be hired thereabouts and that the telephone was not yet in general use in that part of England. Ultimately they set off afoot. After all, as Dave pointed out, five miles wasn’t much of a walk for three husky “gobs,” and probably they’d reach their destination in plenty of time for dinner. Pete, however, showed scant enthusiasm and had a good deal to say about missing “ahfternoon tea.” Missing his tea, it seemed, always upset him frightfully.

It wasn’t a bad road, and it was certainly picturesque until, after a mile or so, it began to run between high banks that quite cut off any view. The evening was still and warm and a light mist hung over the countryside and they walked on into an amber glow from the setting sun. A forest gave them cooler air and they sat down by the way for a while and rested. So far they had met no one and when, presently, a two-wheeled cart rattled into sight it was quite a momentous event.

“Guess we’d better ask if we’re right so far,” said The Pickle, and got to his feet. But in spite of his very evident wish to speak, the occupant of the cart, a heavy, dark-complexioned man with a long brown coat, applied the whip to the horse and dashed by them without drawing rein. A dozen yards beyond he glanced back over his shoulder and there was unmistakable alarm on his face.

The Pickle laughed. “Bet you a dollar, fellows, he thinks we’re Germans! Guess he never saw an American gob before in his life. If you had turned your back, Pete, he might have stopped.”

“If I looked as much like a Hun as you do,” replied Pete, “I’d drown myself. Come on an’ let’s get this over. I never could go parsnips before, Pickle, but these friends o’ yours won’t have half enough for me to-night!”

They found the branching road and, following directions, let it severely alone. There was a prosperous looking farm house a quarter of a mile back from the junction of the ways, approached by a long, narrow lane between head-high hedges. Dave was for going there and negotiating for refreshments, but, as The Pickle pointed out, it was just so much farther to walk. A dog barked at them from half-way up the lane, and insects――crickets, Dave said they were――were busy along the roadside. And once a far-off locomotive whistled shrilly. For the rest, it was a strangely, almost oppressively quiet world they traveled. At last they reached the bridge, which was a small affair of stone and timbers over what looked like a fair-sized brook. The Pickle, however, remembered that the Wylies had frequently spoken of the River Grad and he guessed this was it.

“River, eh?” scoffed Pete. “Then you wait a minute.”

“Where are you going?” Dave asked.

“Goin’ to jump it,” was the reply as Pete clambered down a bank. “First time I ever found a river I could jump across.”

They dissuaded him from the attempt, pointing out that he couldn’t possibly do it in less than two and that the first jump would leave him awfully wet. A little further on――they were traversing an expanse of rolling country interspersed with copse and hedge-lined lanes that seemed to Dave typically English――the road branched. There was a signpost there, but the words were almost obliterated and the early twilight was scant aid to vision. While they hesitated a boy of perhaps fourteen appeared mysteriously through a hedge and stopped stock-still to regard them with amazement and curiosity.

“Hello, sonny,” said The Pickle. “Where do the Wylies live?”

The youth shook himself from his trance with an effort and said “Eh?”

The Pickle repeated the question and the boy shook his head.

“Come on, kid! Have a heart!” said Pete. “Don’t you live around here?”

“Ay, over there.” He pointed indefinitely toward the hedge.

“Then you must know the Wylies’ place?”

“Ay.” He seemed a most laconic youth.

“Fine! Where is it, then?”

“’Tis on this road, sir. ’E can’t miss it. It be a largeish house.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” asked The Pickle.

“’E asked me where they live.”

“Sure. They live in the house, don’t they? Why couldn’t you say so?”

The boy only stared, however. Possibly, they thought, the logic was too much for him, but later they recalled his silence with better understanding After they had progressed some fifty yards along the indicated road Dave glanced back. The boy was following them at a distance. Finding himself observed, however, he slipped from sight. “He, too,” thought Dave, “believes we’re Germans!”

Ten minutes more brought them to the “largeish” house. It stood well back from the road, a stone residence that thoroughly deserved the boy’s description. Although only two stories in height, it covered much ground. It was a most attractive looking house, or would have been save for a certain aspect that brought a perplexed frown to The Pickle’s heated brow. They gazed at it in silence for a moment across the top of a low, well-trimmed hedge. Then Pete said:

“It don’t look quite right to me, Pickle. It looks――looks――”

“Nobody home,” murmured Dave.

“By jove, it looks like it,” muttered The Pickle uneasily. “What a sell if it’s so!”

Pete viewed him disgustedly. “What about those parsnips?” he demanded.

“Well, let’s find out,” suggested Dave. “No use spending the night here.”

They set their feet on a graveled drive and passed between clumps of shrubbery toward the entrance. No light showed, although it was now dark enough to demand lights indoors, and there was something very inhospitable about the tightly-closed portal ahead. The Pickle mounted four wide stone steps and laid hold of an old-fashioned bell-pull. Somewhere distantly and faintly, a bell tinkled. They waited. The Pickle rang again. After that he knocked. And still later they made a circuit of the house and demanded admittance at two other doors with no better success. Then, standing on a moss-grown brick walk at one end of the house, they viewed its many darkened windows and its chimney-pots clustering against the twilight sky in despondent silence until Pete, with a world of sarcasm in his voice, observed briefly:

“Parsnips! Huh!”