16 The Saint Overboard

'You watch that boat. Don't let them know you're doing it —you'd better go below and fix yourself behind one of the port­holes most of the time. But watch it. If a girl comes off it, or a box or a bundle or anything that might contain a girl, you get on your way and stick to her like a fly-paper. Otherwise—you stay watching that ship till I come back or your moustache grows down to your knees. Got it?'

'Yessir.'

Orace went below, unquestioningly, to his vigil; and the Saint stood up and settled his belt. There was action and contact, still, to take his mind away from things on which it did not wish to dwell: he felt a kind of tense elation at the knowledge that the fight was on, one way or the other.

He went ashore with a spring in his step, and a gun in his pocket that helped him to a smile of dry self-derision when he remembered it. It seemed a ridiculously melodramatic precaution in that peaceful port, with the blue afternoon sky arching over the unrippled harbour and the gay colour-splashes of idle holi­day-makers promenading on the breakwaters; but he couldn't laugh himself out of it. Before the end of the adventure he was to know how wise and necessary it was.

The cross-Channel steamer from Weymouth was standing out on the continuation of her voyage to Jersey, and Simon threaded his way to the New Jetty through the stream of disembarked passengers and spectators, and eventually secured a porter. In­quiries were made. Yes, the steamer had landed some cargo con­signed to him. Simon gazed with grim satisfaction at the two new and innocent-looking trunks labelled with his name, and spread a ten-shilling note into the porter's hand.

'Will you get  'em to that boat over there?  The  Corsair.

There's a man on board to take delivery. And don't mistake him for a walrus and try to harpoon him, because he's touchy about that.'

He went back down the pier to the esplanade, fitting a fresh cigarette into his mouth as he went. Those two trunks which he had collected and sent on equipped him for any submarine emer­gencies, and the promptness of their arrival attested the fact that Roger Conway's long retirement in the bonds of respectable if not holy matrimony had dulled none of his old gifts as the perfect lieutenant. There remained the matter of Peter Quentin's contribution; and the Saint moved on to the post office and found it already waiting for him, in the shape of a telegram:

Latitude fortynine fortyone fiftysix north longitude two twentythree fortyfive west Roger and I will be at the Royal before you are others will catch first airplane when you give the word also Hoppy wants to know why he was left out if you've already made a corner in the heroine we are going home I have decided to charge you with the cost of this wire so have much pleasure in signing myself comma at your expense comma yours till Hitler dedicates a synagogue dash

PETER

Simon tucked the sheet away in his pocket, and the first wholly spontaneous smile of that day relaxed the iron set of his mouth as he ranged out into the street again. If he had been asked to offer odds on the tone of that telegram before he opened it, he would have laid a thousand to one to any takers that he could have made an accurate forecast; and at that moment he was very glad to have been right. It was a tribute to the spell which still bound the crew of hell-bent buccaneers which he had once commanded, a token of the spirit of their old brother­hood which no passage of time or outside associations could alter, which sent him on his way to the Royal Hotel with a quickened stride and a sudden feeling of invincible faith.

He found them in the bar, entertaining a couple of damsels in beach pyjamas who could be seen at a glance to be endowed with that certain something which proved that Peter and Roger had kept their speed and initiative unimpaired in more directions than one. Beyond the first casual inspection with which any newcomer would have been greeted, they took no notice of him; but as he approached the counter, Roger Conway decided that an­other round of drinks was due, and came up beside him.

'Four sherries, please,' he said; and as the barmaid set up the glasses, he added: 'And by the way—before I forget—would you get a bottle of Scotch and a siphon sent up to my room some time this evening? Number fifteen.'

Simon took a pull at the beer with which he had been served, and compared his watch with the clock.

'Is that clock right?' he inquired, and the barmaid looked up at it.

'Yes, I think so.'

The Saint nodded, pretending to make an adjustment on his wrist.

'That's good—I've got an appointment at