DINNER at the Carrignarone Hotel, where the Australians and Sir John were the only guests, was apt to be a lengthy and hilarious affair, with everybody very hungry and very merry, and with jokes flying, much to the disorganization of the waitress, who was wont to spend much of her time in clapping her hand over her mouth and rushing from the room. When the necessities of the meal forbade these hasty retreats, the waitress was apt to explode in short, sharp gasps, greatly endangering whatever dish she happened to be handing.

This evening, however, the younger members of the party were inclined to be unusually silent. Mr. Linton’s vacant seat was in itself depressing; and since it was impossible to talk of the subject seething in their minds, conversation of any kind was not easy. But John O’Neill was like a child; and before long they all fell under the spell of his merriment. Never had they seen him in such a happy mood. Every line was smoothed from his worn face, and his eyes danced with an eager joy that was almost uncanny. All his being seemed transformed in the complete contentment that had possession of him. Deliberately he set himself to make the others laugh; and succeeded so well that they astonished themselves by making an extremely good dinner and feeling, at its conclusion, considerably reinforced for the work that lay before them.

O’Neill led the way out to the little landing-stage near the inn, where the fishing-boats were anchored, their brown nets drying on rough fences on the beach. They sat down on some upturned fish-boxes, looking westward across the water, where the sun was preparing to set in a glory of golden cloud.

“Now I’m going to be sensible,” Sir John said. “I’ve been thinking out a plan of campaign, and I want your views.”

He brought out from his pocket a plan of the inlet, drawn by Jim—a companion to the one Mr. Linton had carried to Captain Aylwin.

“You have ‘Flat Rock’ marked here over the cave,” he said. “Is that the rock you were sitting on when Wally dropped his knife?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Jim answered. “It has a cleft in it through which the knife went down—just wide enough to admit the knife. It’s really a kind of lid over the rocks that form the first cave.”

“And you said there were loose boulders lying on it?”

“Yes; big fragments of rock. I should think that a big chunk of the cliff must have fallen on it once, probably splitting it and making the crack, and breaking itself as well. A lot of it went down: the biggest piece buried itself partly in the sand.”

“That’s the boulder that almost hides the entrance, then?”

Jim nodded assent.

“It’s about three feet from the entrance and a good deal wider than it,” he said. “There are so many similar rocks lying about that it would be quite easy to miss the cave altogether.”

“Then I take it that the top of the flat rock is above high-water mark?”

“Oh, yes,” Jim answered. “High-water mark is about a foot over the top of the entrance, and the rock is quite four feet higher than that. Otherwise I don’t fancy the waves would have left those big pieces of loose rock lying on it.”

“That’s what I wanted to know. Now listen. Suppose the Germans land, and most of them disappear into the caves, to fish for petrol. What is to hinder two active people, armed with levers, from sending down from the top of the rock enough boulders to block the entrance?”

Jim started, his pipe falling from his hand.

“By—Jove!” he uttered. “What a ripping idea!”

“Why, we could do it as easily as possible,” Wally said, excitedly. “The rocks are quite close to the edge: one of them is so loose that we were rocking it this afternoon. We’ve pretty hefty muscles—we could send half a dozen over in no time with a couple of iron bars. Glory, O’Neill, you have a head!”

“Yes,” said Jim, his eyes dancing—“and they could hardly miss the entrance, because the big boulder in front would prevent their rolling out too far. What chumps we were, not to think of it, Wal!”

“Then you’d have the Germans like rats in a trap—and with no shooting at all!” Norah cried, delightedly.

“Something like that: with luck,” said O’Neill. “Of course, they would have a guard posted outside, and another at the boat. But the main crowd would be inside, I should think.”

“It’s really rather a staggering notion, it’s so simple,” Jim said. “And I don’t see how it can go wrong.”

“It certainly simplifies our plan of action,” O’Neill remarked. “And it doesn’t beat us, even if it fails; you would have to jump down among the boulders, in that case, and do the best you could with your revolvers as the people inside came out—which they would do in a hurry. My own little game must be the boat and the guard at it. It’s rather important that it should not be allowed to get back; a submarine without a collapsible is rather like a horse with a lame leg.” He turned his face towards the sunset, its expression of child-like happiness stronger than ever. “Wow! isn’t it going to be a jewel of a fight!”

Jim laughed.

“Aren’t you the Berserk!” he said. “But I don’t much like being separated. You’ll be careful, O’Neill, won’t you, and keep well behind cover? There are plenty of boulders near where they must land.”

“Rather!” Sir John answered. “For once in my life I have a job that matters, and I’m certainly not going to risk carrying it out by getting shot unnecessarily. They won’t leave a strong guard at the boat: a submarine crew is too limited to use many men, and then, so far as we know, they feel perfectly safe, and have no reason to take extra precautions. Speed will be their main idea; they must make the most of the short time between low-water and daylight.” He swung round towards Norah, smiling at her. “How are you feeling, mate?”

“I’m feeling very cheerful,” said Norah, whose face bore out her words. “There isn’t nearly so much danger for the boys on top of the rock, is there, Sir John?”

“Certainly not; if they can block the entrance from above they may not even have to use their revolvers—which will be a sad blow to them,” O’Neill answered. “I’m always against promiscuous shooting, especially when there are ladies present—even to satisfy fire-eaters like Wally and Jim!”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right, Sir John?”

“I’ll be as right as possible,” he assured her, laughing at her anxious face. “All I have to do is to sit comfortably behind my little rock and pot at fat Germans; and when you hear me potting, you can light the beacon and crawl away with discreet haste. I hope you realize that we couldn’t carry out this plan at all if we hadn’t you as fire-lighter: we couldn’t do without a fourth hand.”

“I’m so glad,” Norah said, happily. “When do we start, Sir John?”

“We’ll slip out about half-past nine,” he answered. “You and I will stroll along in one direction, and the boys in another, and we can meet near the northern headland where we must have the beacon. Each of us must carry a bottle of petrol—I’ll see to getting them ready; and as we go we can pick up stray bits of wood. There is driftwood everywhere on the beach, and we can collect plenty beyond the inlet: I don’t want to go there, nor do I want to show up on the north headland while there is much light. We don’t know where the Germans you saw this evening may be hiding—though I would think, judging from the direction in which they were going, that their boat must be hidden in a tiny bay that lies south of the inlet. Still, it doesn’t do to risk things.”

“I suppose,” said Wally, “those fellows with the boat will stay wherever they are hiding until nearly low-water; then they’ll pull round to the inlet, and the submarine will bob up, and they’ll take the other men on board and go ashore after the petrol.”

“That’s the most likely thing,” O’Neill said. “We must be in position long before that. A good thing it’s a warm night: still, we shall have to lie still for a good while, and you’d better dress warmly, all of you.” He looked at his watch. “Nine o’clock, and time we began to get ready. There are crowbars in the old shed Con used as a garage, boys; I noticed them this morning. I’m going after bottles for the petrol.”

He stood up, looking at the three young faces. They were all eager; but it was as though a living light glowed in his own dark eyes. He held his gallant head high, the twisted body forgotten.

“I’d like to say ‘Thank you,’ only I don’t know how,” he said. “If you hadn’t come, this wouldn’t have happened; and now, whatever comes, I’ll always have it to remember that just once in my life I had a chance of a man’s job.” His light stride carried him quickly across the beach.

IN the little inlet, shadowed by the high rocks, everything was very quiet. The tide was running out rapidly: foot by foot the smooth boulders came out of the sea, to stand like sentinels until once more the heaving green water should swing back and climb gently until it rippled over their heads. Inch by inch the opening grew, forming the entrance to the cave under the rocks, and the water slid out as though rejoicing to escape from its dark prison within and to seek the laughing freedom of the sea that tumbled beyond the headlands. Overhead a half-moon sailed, now and then blotted out by drifting clouds; and in the East was the faintest glimmer of the coming dawn. But the water of the little bay lay black and formless, and though the sands showed, visible and pale, the shadows that lay about the great boulders were like pools of ink.

On the flat rock over the cave Jim and Wally crouched, now and then moving cautiously to keep their tired limbs from stiffening. It was very cold, in the silent hour before dawn. Two hours earlier they had climbed down from above, making use of the scant moonlight or clinging like limpets to the cliff when the clouds blotted out the moon’s faint radiance: glad to arrive at their destination with nothing worse than bruises and torn clothes.

Once on the rock, they had set about their preparations: crawling all over it, making sure of knowing every inch in the dark, and becoming acquainted with each boulder that lay upon its surface. They tested them with their crowbars in the darkness, and found it possible to move all but two or three. The great fragment that balanced near the edge they levered nearer still, so that only a little effort would be needed to send it crashing down; and then they moved others near it, working with caution that was almost painful, lest even a scratch of rock on rock should carry a warning across the dark water. Below them, the waves had at first rippled and splashed against the crags; but gradually they receded, and leaning over, lying flat on the stone, they could make out the position of the great boulder that marked the entrance to the cave, and so make sure that their balanced rock was in the right place. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

How the minutes dragged! Far up on the northern headland, Norah crouched among sparse furze and heather, unheeding the prickly branches that forbade comfort. The edge of the low cliff prevented her seeing the inlet; she could only watch the dim outline of the coast, stretching northward, and the stormy sky with its hurrying clouds. Before her loomed dimly the heap of petrol-soaked wood and furze which they had roughly piled in the darkness behind a boulder that hid it from watching eyes, should any be on the alert. She had expected to be afraid when at last they had all shaken hands with her and wished her luck before creeping away to their posts; but now she found that she had no sense of fear. Jim had stayed behind for a moment and kissed her, calling her “old kiddie” in the way she loved. In the agony of wondering if she would ever hear his voice again there was no room for fear for herself.

John O’Neill had had longer to wait before climbing down to the beach. He had lain on the edge of the high ground, motionless, taking advantage of every moonlit moment to learn by heart the scene below as the tide crawled backward. Jim’s plan was fresh in his memory: now he stared at each boulder, studying opportunities for cover and making out the path that the Germans must take to the cave. He knew where it was, though he could not see it: it relieved him, too, that he was unable to discern Jim and Wally, or to hear the faintest sound of their presence, although he knew they must be on the rock. Finally, he made his cautious way to the beach, and followed the tide out yard by yard, creeping from one shadow to another: a shadow himself, white-faced and frail, among the rugged boulders.

It was very cold, on the wet sand; he shivered, and his teeth chattered. He fell to rubbing himself steadily, chafing his wrists and ankles; but it seemed as though the long watch would never end. Once, when the clouds suddenly blew apart and the moon shone more brightly, he fancied he saw a dim shape outside the headlands: a shape that might have been a ship. But before he had time to be certain the dark masses overhead drifted together once more, leaving him in doubt as to whether it had not been his imagination.

The shadow of dawn came in the east, and O’Neill felt his heart sink. They were not coming, after all: soon it would be daylight and the tide would turn and come creeping back to hide the cave for another twelve hours. For a moment the keenness of disappointment made him shiver, suddenly colder than he had ever been; and then his heart thumped and the blood seemed to rush through his veins. Something, long, and grey, and very faint was showing on the water. It was not a dream: he heard a faint plash that he knew was an oar, muffled yet distinct in the deep stillness: and then a low mutter of a voice, coming across the sea to him. He drew a long, satisfied breath, and felt a hatchet that hung at his belt, as he had felt it a hundred times, to make sure that it hung where he could draw it easily. Then his hand closed on the revolver in his coat-pocket and clung to it almost lovingly. For the first time in his life it did not matter in the least that he was a hunchback.

The low sound of oars came nearer, and gradually, out of the darkness, a boat loomed upon the water and grounded softly on the strand. They were not half a dozen yards from where O’Neill crouched in a patch of black shadow, watching between two rocks. The men in her stepped out, quietly, but showing no sense of danger. They were more in number than he had expected; there would be a stiff fight if Jim and Wally failed to trap them. He crouched lower, scarcely daring to breathe. Then one who was evidently in command gave a low curt order and they filed off along the winding path between the strewn boulders, leaving two of their number in the boat.

The rocks hid the main body for a moment. The guards worked the boat round until her bow pointed outwards in readiness for the run back to the submarine; then they came out, stamping on the sand to keep warm. One of them, a thick-set fellow in oilskins, strode inland a few yards, pausing so close to O’Neill that the Irishman could have touched him, and for a sick instant he thought he was discovered; but the sailor strolled back to his companion with a muttered curse at the cold, and they stood by the boat, talking in low tones. O’Neill searched the rocks with his eyes, straining to see the entrance to the cave. Surely it was time for them to have reached it. Would the sound he longed for never come?

Then came a long reverberating crash, and another, and yet another and a long, terrible cry, and above it a shrill whistle. The men on the beach swung round, breaking into a torrent of bewildered furious speech. On the northern headland came a flicker of light that spread upwards and soared in a sheet of flame; and simultaneously Sir John fired at the man nearest him and saw him pitch into the water on his face. The second man rushed at him as he rose from behind the rock, and he fired again, and missed; and the German Was upon him, towering over the slight, misshapen form, and firing as he came. O’Neill felt a sharp agony in his side. The two revolvers rang out together, and the German staggered and fell bodily upon him, crushing him to the sand, while his revolver flew from his hand, splashing into a pool in a rock.

The Irishman twisted himself from under the inert weight, and struggled to his feet. A German was rushing towards the boat, threading his way among the rocks, his face desperate in its bewilderment and rage. The sight gave strength to John O’Neill anew; he ran to the boat, staggering as he ran, and pulling at his hatchet. There were dark stains on it as he grasped it. The German saw his intention and shouted furiously, and shots began to whistle past O’Neill. There was no time to look: he flung himself into the boat, hacking wildly at the bottom, smiling as it split under his blows and he felt the cold inrush of the water round his feet. The German was upon him: just once he glanced aside from his work and saw the cruel face and the levelled revolver very close, somewhere it seemed that Jim and Wally were shouting. He smiled again, turning for a final blow at the boat. Then sea and rock and sky seemed to burst round him, with a deafening roar, in a blaze of white light that turned the grey dawn into a path of glory.

He woke from a dreamless sleep. They were all about him: kind faces that loved him, that bent over him speaking gently. Some one had propped his head, and had spread coats over him: he was glad of it, for he was very cold. The wavering faces steadied as his vision grew clearer, and he saw them all: David Linton and the boys, and Norah kneeling by him, her eyes full of tears. That troubled him, and he groped for her hand, and held it.

“You mustn’t cry,” he whispered.

Some one raised his head a little, putting a flask to his lips. He drank eagerly. Then he saw another face he knew.

“Hallo, Aylwin!” he said. “Did you get her?”

The sailor nodded. “Don’t talk, old man.”

O’Neill laughed outright. The brandy had brought life back to him.

“I’m perfectly well,” he said. “Tell me, Jim—quick!”

“We got them quite easily,” Jim said, his voice shaking. “The first rock blocked the entrance, and they’re there yet. We sent down all the rocks, and one fell on one of the two guards they left; the other managed to wing Wally before he ran.”

O’Neill started.

“Is he hurt?”

“Only my arm,” said Wally. “It’s quite all right—don’t you worry. It wasn’t much to pay for the haul we got—thanks to you.” The boyish face twitched, and he put out his hand and took O’Neill’s in its grip.

“Go on, please,” Sir John begged.

“The other chap ran,” Jim said: “of course his idea was to get the boat back to the submarine. The brute got a start of us while we were making sure the others were blocked in securely.”

“Have you put a guard there?” O’Neill interrupted, anxiously. “They might break out.”

“Half a dozen of my men,” Aylwin said, quickly. “It’s all right, old chap.”

“We saw him begin to fire at you, and we did our best,” said Jim, with a groan. “We didn’t dare fire, for fear of hitting you, until we were close. Then we got him—but——” His strained voice ceased.

“You needn’t worry—his mate had fixed me first,” said O’Neill, serenely. “It was great luck I had, to be able to get to the boat at all: your man didn’t matter.” He laughed happily. “This makes up for having lived. Tell me your part of it, Bob.”

“We got down in very good time,” Aylwin said. “The ship couldn’t come in, of course; but I’ve a handy motor-boat with a gun rigged in her, and we sneaked in and lay just under the south headland. It was quite simple; we were into the inlet before the first flare died down, and there was the submarine, with nothing doing. It was as easy as shelling peas.”

“Then it was your gun . . . ?” O’Neill said.

“Yes. We’re on guard, of course; but she won’t come up again. When it’s light we’ll deal with the gentlemen in the cave.” The sailor’s curt voice became even more abrupt. “Never saw a show better planned—the whole thing went like clockwork. I always knew you had the makings of a general in you, Jack!”

O’Neill gave a quick, happy sigh.

“The boys and Norah did it all,” he said. “But it was splendid fun, to be able to take a hand. I said it would be a jewel of a fight!”

A slow wave of weakness stole over him, and he closed his eyes.

“Is the tide coming in?” he said, presently. “I thought I felt it—creeping.”

Jim took off his coat and put it on his feet.

“We’ll get you up to the motor presently,” he said, his young voice unsteady. O’Neill laughed.

“Not before the finish,” he said. “It won’t be long.”

Norah’s head went down suddenly on his hand.

“You can’t die!” she said,—“we can’t spare you, dear Sir John. We’re going to make you better!”

“Dying is only a very little matter, dear little mate,” O’Neill said. “It’s living that hurts. And just think of what I have—a man’s finish! That is a great thing, when one has lived a hunchback.”

He did not speak for a long time, lying with closed eyes. The dawn was breaking: light grew on the surface of the inlet, where long streaks of oil floated on the ripples. They watched the quiet figure. Under the coats that covered him, all traces of deformity were lost. Something of new beauty had crept into the high-bred features; and when he opened his eyes again they were like the smiling eyes of a child. They met Jim’s, and the lips smiled too, while his weak hand rested on Norah’s head.

“And I worrying,” he said, “because I was out of the war.”

“You had your own job,” said Aylwin. “And you pulled it off, old man.”

“It was great luck,” O’Neill said. “God had pity. Enormous luck . . . to finish at a man’s job.” He did not speak again. The sun, climbing upwards, shone tenderly upon the happy face.

The End.

Butler & Tanner, Frome and London.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

Some illustrations were moved to facilitate page layout.