“It’s a position indicator. It would, I think, be useful at all times, but during fog it would be simply invaluable: that is, for coasting work, you know. It would be no good for protection against collision with another ship. But for clearing a headland or making a harbor in a fog it would be worth its weight in gold. The principle is, I believe, old, but I have been lucky enough to hit on improvements in detail which get over the defects of previous instruments. Speaking broadly, a fixed pointer, which may if desired carry a pen, rests on a moving chart. The chart is connected to a compass and to rollers operated by devices for recording the various components of motion: one is driven off the propeller, others are set, automatically mostly, for such things as wind, run of tide, wave motion and so on. The pointer always indicates the position of the ship, and as the ship moves, the chart moves to correspond. Steering then resolves itself into keeping the pointer on the correct line on the chart, and this can be done by night without guide lamps, or in a fog, as well as in daytime. The apparatus would also assist navigation through unbuoyed channels over covered mud flats, or in time of war through charted mine fields. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you, Mr. Cheyne, but I do wish you would at least let me show you the device. You could then decide whether you would allow me to fix it to your yacht for experimental purposes.”
“I should like to see it,” Cheyne admitted. “If you can do all you claim, I certainly think you have a good thing. Where is it to be seen?”
“On my launch, or rather, the launch I have borrowed.” The young man’s eagerness now almost approached excitement. His eyes sparkled and he fidgeted in his chair. “She is lying off Johnson’s boat slip at Dartmouth. I left the dinghy there.”
“And you want me to go now?”
“If you really will be so kind. I should propose a short run down the estuary and along the coast towards Exmouth, say for two or three hours. Could you spare so much time?”
“Why, yes, I should enjoy it. I shall be back, say, between and .”
“I’ll have you back at Johnson’s slip at . I have a taxi waiting now, and I’ll arrange with Johnson to call another for you as soon as he sees us coming up the estuary.”
“I’ll go,” said Cheyne. “Just a moment until I tell my people and get a coat.”
The day was ideal for the run. Spring was in the air. The brilliant sun poured down from an almost cloudless sky, against which the sea horizon showed a hard, sharp line of intensest blue. Within the estuary it was calm, but multitudinous white flecks in the distance showed a stiff breeze was blowing out at sea. Cheyne’s spirits rose. It was a glorious sport, this of battling with the foaming, tumbling waves in the open. How he loved their blue-black depth with its suggestion of utter and absolute cleanness, the creamy purity of their seething crests, their steady, irresistible onward movement, the restless dancing and swirling of the wavelets on their flanks! To him it was life to feel the buoyant spring of the craft beneath him, to hear the crash of the bows into the troughs and the smack of the spindrift striking aft. He was glad this Lamson had called. Even if the matter of the invention was a washout, as he more than half expected, he felt he was going to enjoy his afternoon.
Three or four minutes brought them to Johnson’s boat slip on the outskirts of Dartmouth. There Lamson drew the proprietor aside.
“See here,” he directed, “we’re going out for a run. I want you to keep a lookout for us coming back. We shall be in about . As soon as you see us send for a taxi and have it here when we get ashore. Now, Mr. Cheyne, if you’re ready.”
They climbed down into a small dinghy and Lamson, taking the oars, pulled out towards a fair-sized motor launch which lay at anchor some couple of hundred yards from the shore. She was not a graceful boat, but looked strongly built, showing a high bluff bow, a square stern and lines suggestive of speed.
“A sea boat,” said Cheyne approvingly. “You surely don’t run her by yourself?”
“No, a motoring friend has been giving me a hand. I am skipper and he engineer. We hug the coast, you know, and don’t go out if it is blowing.”
As he spoke he pulled round the stern of the launch upon which Cheyne observed the words “Enid, Devonport.” At the same time a tall, well-built figure appeared and waved his hand. Lamson brought the dinghy up to the tiny steps and a moment later they were on deck.
“Mr. Cheyne has come out to see the great invention, Tom. I almost hope that he is interested. My friend, Tom Lewisham, Mr. Cheyne.”
The two men shook hands.
“Lamson thinks he is going to make his fortune with this thing, Mr. Cheyne,” the big man remarked, smiling. “We must see that there is no mistake about our percentages.”
“If you want a percentage you must work for it, my son,” Lamson declared. “Mr. Cheyne must be back by , so get your old rattletrap going and we’ll run down to the sea. If you don’t mind, Mr. Cheyne, we’ll get under way before I show you the machine, as it takes both of us to get started.”
“Right-o,” said Cheyne. “I’ll bear a hand if there’s anything I can do.”
“Well, that’s good of you. It would be a help if you would take the tiller while I’m making all snug. There’s a bit of a tumble on outside.”
The boat was certainly a flier. The charmingly situated old town dropped rapidly astern while
