CHAPTER IX
AT THE LIGHTHOUSE
"GOOD-MARNIN', Mr Trematon, and good-marnin' tu you young gen'lmen,"exclaimed the genial farmer as the patrols halted outside thefarmhouse. "Du'ee come right in and have a drink o' milk. Mary, du'eeask missus tu bring a score o' glasses out; cups'll du, if therebain't enow."
Refreshed, the Scouts began their tour of inspection, their hostaccompanying them and answering to the best of his ability theinnumerable questions with which his visitors plied him. Not once buta dozen times Farmer Trebarwith was forced to own himself beaten, sointricate were some of the problems put to him.
"There be Polkerwyck House," announced the farmer, pointing to along, two-storeyed stone mansion lying in a broad valley snuglysheltered from the north and east by a steep, tree-clad hill. "SirSilas Gwinnear lives there when he's at home, which ain't often.Heard the latest news about his affair in Lunnon, sir?"
Mr Trematon shook his head. Newspapers were to be almost strangers tohim during the fortnight at Seal Island. Atherton felt a strangesensation in his throat; he realised that if the miscreants had beencaught it meant an end to his holiday at Seal Island, since he wouldhave to be one of the principal witnesses for the prosecution.
"The police says as that they knows who the villains are as halfmurdered Sir Silas," continued Farmer Trebarwith. "Only the rascalshave padded the hoof--gone somewhares to foreign parts. They says as'ow Sir Silas, bein' 'ead of the Associated Shippers'Federation--whatever that might mean--has upset some o' the dockersover the new scale o' payments, and the dockers have got their backup."
"Look, they're haymaking over there," exclaimed little Reggie Scott."What fun it would be if we could toss the hay about."
"Du it, an right welcome, young gen'lmen," said the farmer. "Us betur'ble short-handed, what with three o' my chaps 'aving gone to'Merica, and two more down wi' mumps. Sure, I'd be main glad to seethe hay safe under cover afore the rain comes on." And Trebarwithglanced anxiously towards the western sky.
"A chance to do a good turn, lads," exclaimed Atherton. "Tell us whatto do, sir, and we'll tackle the job."
For the rest of the morning the Scouts toiled in the sultry air likeyoung Trojans, tossing and carting the hay to one corner of themeadow where the farmer's men were at liberty to commence theconstruction of the rick. By noon, when the labourers ceased work toenjoy their mid-day meal of bread and cheese washed down with cyder,Farmer Trebarwith expressed his opinion that Scouts were main handylads, and that, by their aid, he did not expect any difficulty ingetting the crop safely under cover before the evening.
After a bounteous dinner provided by the grateful farmer, the Scoutsformed up and started on their march to the lighthouse on BewareHead. Their route lay on the same road as far as Polkerwyck, andthence by a narrow cliff-path, skirting Seal Island bay to thepromontory where the lighthouse is situated.
As the patrols were passing the Polkerwyck post-office--a smallcottage converted into a general shop, draper's, grocer's, chandler'scombined,--a smart dogcart was drawn up outside. From the shop came atall, ungainly and not prepossessing man dressed in black. His facewas pale; his eyes deep-set, shifty and heavily lined underneath; hisclosely trimmed side-whiskers gave the appearance of a superiormanservant.
Furtively looking up and down the narrow street and giving asupercilious glance at the passing Scouts, the man jumped into thedogcart and urged the horse at a rapid and unnecessary pace up thesteep road leading towards Wadebridge.
Atherton asked and obtained permission to fall out, and giving thetip to his chum Simpson, induced that worthy to accompany him intothe post-office.
"Two picture postcards and two halfpenny stamps, please," he asked ofthe old lady who was the local representative of His Majesty'sPostmaster-General.
"It be middlin' warm, sir," remarked the postmistress, as shelaboriously counted out the change.
"It is," agreed the Leader of the "Otters." "By the by, I didn't knowthat Mr Jones lived anywhere about here."
"Mr Jones, sir?" asked the old lady in a puzzled tone.
"Yes, the gentleman who was in here a minute ago: the one who droveup in a dogcart."
"You must be making a mistake, sir," replied the old dame. "Thatbain't Mr Jones. No one of that name bides hereabouts--leastways Ican't call the name to mind, an I've lived here maid and wife thesesixty-seven years come Michaelmas. Sure, now, that wur Mr Tassh--PaulTassh commonly socalled--as is butler up at the big house."
"Polkerwyck House?"
"Yes, Sir Silas' place."
"Thank you: I've made a mistake in supposing his name was Jones,"said the Scout, and saluting he left the shop.
"I say, old fellow," exclaimed Simpson. "What's the move? You don'tknow anyone called Jones living about here, I feel certain."
"Neither do I," agreed Atherton calmly. "I only wanted to find outwho that fellow was. He may be the man who paid a night visit to SealIsland."
"Of course he may be, but there are ever so many chances that he maynot be," said the Leader of the "Wolves." "One thing I noticed: hewas not wearing indiarubber shoes."
"It is not at all unusual for a man to change his shoes more thanonce in a day," remarked Atherton. "It was his walk that I noticed.He has big feet, yet he took very short steps. The suspicious way inwhich he looked over his shoulder did not impress me veryfavourably."
Before any more could be said the two Leaders separated to rejointheir respective patrols, and the ascent of the cliff path commenced.It was a tedious tramp up and down, as the route descended almost tothe sea-level in order to traverse the numerous small streams thatfound their way into the bay. Five times the lighthouse was hidden byintervening ground ere the Scouts drew up at the whitewashed stonewall enclosing the lighthouse and the keepers' houses adjoining.
The lighthouse men were most painstaking in their task of explainingeverything to their young guests. The clockwork and manual-workedmachinery for actuating the occulting light, the ingeniousconstruction of the lenses of the lantern, the usual and theemergency means of supplying its illumination--all were in turn shownto the Scouts, none of whom had ever been in a lighthouse before.
"Bill!" exclaimed one of the keepers in the midst of a technicaldiscourse. "It's coming on thick. You can't see the Island already.Throw me the key of the rocket store."
The keeper addressed as Bill handed over the required article, andthen drew back the curtains of the lantern room, which, during theday, were always kept closed in order to prevent the rays of the sunfrom damaging the dioptric lenses of the lantern. A sea-fog--anothersign of an approaching storm--had banked up with considerablerapidity. Wreaths of vapour were curling over the waters of Seal Bay,while, as the keeper had announced, the Island itself was quite lostto view.
"This'll give you a chance to see how we work the explosivefog-signals," remarked the man, as he hauled down a fishing-rod-likeapparatus from outside the lighthouse. "Here are thecharges--gun-cotton, fired electrically; two every five minutes."
Securing the two cartridges to the forked ends of the rod, the keeperhoisted the latter to its former position and touched a key. A sharpcrack, that in the outer air resembled the discharge of aseven-pounder, announced that the first of the warning signals hadbeen fired. Ten seconds later the second was discharged, and thekeeper lowered the holder to recharge it.
"What makes the light blink?" asked Scott.
"This revolving screen, sir," answered the keeper. "It is worked bythe action of a slowly falling weight, after the principle of agrandfather's clock. We have to wind it every two hours. If that goeswrong we have to grind the lantern round by hand, and a preciousstiff job it is."
"That's where we would come in handy," observed Baker. "Scouts to therescue, eh?"
"All right, young gentlemen. I'll bear that in mind, and if theapparatus goes wrong while you are on Seal Island we'll signal for aparty of you to bear a hand. There'll be stiff arms and aching backsin the morning, I'll warrant."
The inspection came
to an end at last, and Mr Trematon led his Scoutsout into the now dense fog.
Upon reaching Polkerwyck, the Scoutmaster went into the post-office,for since he had promised Phillips that he should be the hunter ofthe party, he had to get the lad a gun licence.
"Now you'll be all right, Phillips," exclaimed Mr Trematon."To-morrow morning you can take my gun and see if you can knock overenough rabbits to provide us with dinner."
"There'll be a telegram for you, sir," said the post-mistress,handing the Scoutmaster a buff-coloured envelope. "Came in thisafternoon, and Peter Varco telled me as there was no one on t' Islandto take it, so I kept it back."
Mr Trematon hastily opened the envelope and scanned its contents,then filling in a telegraph form he handed it in and left the shop.
"Lads," he explained, "I've had bad news. Circumstances demand thatI return to my home at Guildford as soon as possible. Atherton, untilI send some one to take charge, you must be Acting AssistantScoutmaster. I know I can trust you. Here is enough money to carryyou on for a few days, and here is the key of the portable locker. IfI hurry I may be able to catch the evening train from Wadebridge. Letme know every day how you get on."
"We are sorry, sir," said several of the Scouts in chorus.
"Thank you, lads," replied the Scoutmaster. "I trust it is not so badas the telegram leads me to believe. Can you get across to the Islandall right in the fog, or shall I ask Varco to pilot you over?"
"We'll manage all right, sir," said Atherton confidently. "I have mypocket-compass, and I know the bearings."
"Very good; now good-bye, lads; I hope you'll have a decent time inspite of the impending weather."
"Good-bye, sir," shouted nearly a score of voices with genuineregret.
The next moment Mr Trematon, hurrying up the hill as fast as hecould, was lost to sight in the fog, while the "Otters" and the"Wolves" remained on the stone quay of Polkerwyck till the sound ofhis footsteps faded into a silence broken only by the ground-swellupon the wild and rugged coast.