Читать книгу Round the World in the "Golden Gleaner" - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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“Mind—why should I?” asked Mr. Stacey. “I wish for some things I were going too. But I can’t leave your mother and the girls.” This was obvious. “You’d better not say good-bye to them. Your mother might be anxious about you flying. You have your tickets and passports? Money: no more than that? I haven’t any too much either.”

“Permit me, Monsieur Stacey,” said Dubois, who had been listening to the conversation. “I can trust an English gentleman. Never have I been—how shall I say?—done in ze eye by one. Except in one instance——”

Leaving Dubois to relate the incident and also to assist his guests financially should the need arise, the chums set about their hasty and limited preparations.

Since Gerald’s suitcase was no longer usable, they packed their joint essentials into Peter’s with the result that it could not be fastened.

“It’ll have to do,” declared Gerald. “And we won’t have the bother of having to open it when we pass the Customs.”

Another difficulty confronted them. The suitcase was too bulky to be taken through the tunnel. A lot of their belongings had to be removed and handled separately before the case could be pushed and pulled into the open air.

In spite of these difficulties, the chums and their luggage boarded the helicopter with thirty seconds to the good!

Although not suitably clad for flying—even for a journey of no more than ten minutes’ duration—the chums enjoyed their flight over the snow-clad mountains and ravines. They were in high spirits, too, at the prospect of joining their ship, even though time was getting short.

Descending slowly and almost vertically, the helicopter touched down in a square within a couple of minutes’ walk of the railway station. Quickly a crowd gathered to watch the chums alight. There were murmurs of sympathy as they did so. Without having to be informed, the kindly Swiss throng seemed to know that the two English youths had been rescued from the scene of the avalanche.

In turn Gerald and Peter shook hands with their pilot.

“Merci, monsieur!” exclaimed the former. “Combien?”

The man made a negative gesture, clearly indicating that he wished for no payment for his services. Then, accelerating, the helicopter soared once more into the blue sky.

A number of people escorted the chums to the gare. There was quite a scramble to carry their bulging suitcase for them, with the result that half a dozen articles fell out and a halt made for them to be restored to their insecure place.

They found that they would have to wait an hour for their train—sixty minutes of impatient delay—but they filled in most of the time by having quite a sumptuous meal. As Peter remarked, it was their last chance of a good tuck-in on Swiss soil and goodness only knew when they would be able to do so again.

The express took them to Paris, where, owing to some misunderstanding, they boarded another train, which they thought would deposit them in Calais. Actually it landed them at Le Havre where, after being questioned by Customs officials, they were permitted to board a steamboat for Southampton. That was where they were to join the S.S. Golden Gleaner in fifteen hours’ time. Meanwhile they must journey to London and back in order to change into uniform and collect their sea-going kit.

It was now nearly midnight. The night was dark and there was a blustering wind, accompanied by showers of rain. They knew that their ship was lying at a nearby wharf but there was nothing they could do about it. The train to Waterloo was leaving in twenty minutes’ time.

Fortunately for them there was no delay at the Customs. On being told that they were virtually refugees from the avalanche village of Chamoisette—details of the disaster had been reported in the British press—the officials passed them through without examining the disorderly contents of their joint suitcase.

They caught the London train with five minutes to spare. They were now in good if not high spirits.

According to the time-table, they would arrive at Waterloo at two in the morning. There would be neither a tube train nor a bus to take them to Balham at that unearthly hour. They could walk that distance; but, even so, the house would be locked up and, even taking the circumstances into consideration, they couldn’t knock up their friendly neighbour before seven in order to obtain the key to the Staceys’ residence.

Working things out they found that, barring accidents, they would be home between seven and eight. Allowing two hours to have baths, change into uniform and pack their sea-kit, they would be able to catch the ten o’clock quick train to Southampton, where it was due to arrive shortly after midday. That would afford them ample time to report for duty on board the Golden Gleaner, which was timed to sail at a quarter to one in the afternoon.

It wasn’t so easy as all that!

For one thing, after killing time at Waterloo for a couple of hours, they were not able to get hold of the key until a quarter to eight. Then there wasn’t a fire at the Staceys’ house. That meant no hot baths—an absolute necessity—until a couple of kettles of water had been boiled on the gas stove.

After that Gerald couldn’t find some of his clothes, in spite of the fact that his mother had expressly told him where they were before starting on their disappointing though exciting Swiss holiday.

As things turned out, they caught their train at Waterloo by the skin of their teeth.

The train was crowded, but Gerald found himself sitting opposite a bronzed man of about fifty, who was wearing a reefer jacket, blue trousers and a peaked cap bearing the badge of a well-known south coast yacht club. The chums could not help wondering why he was obviously on his way to join a yacht at this season of the year.

He, on his part, was sizing up the lads sitting opposite. He knew by their cap badges that they belonged to the fleet owned by Messrs. Whatmough, Duvant and Co. As a matter of fact, his only son was fourth officer in the S.S. Golden Effort. Although his home was at St. Alban’s, Mr. Gregory—that being his name—kept a small cabin motor-launch in commission almost all the year round. Her home port was Southampton, and during the period when most amateur yachtsmen lay up their craft he used his principally for fishing trips.

“Just off on another voyage?” he asked tactfully.

He guessed from the fact that they were wearing brand new uniforms that they were joining their first ship, but it was advisable to practise a little deception in that matter. He was a little surprised, however, when Peter replied that this was the first time they were going to sea in a professional way.

“You belong to Whatmough, Duvant’s fleet, I see,” continued their questioner. “And how was my young friend Duvant when you last saw him?”

Gerald had to reply that, as far as he knew, he hadn’t set eyes upon the shipping firm’s junior partner. At their initial interview another member had “put them through their paces”.

The conversation continued, during which it transpired that Mr. Gregory was going to spend a long week-end on board his motor-launch Fidelity, and that he hoped to augment his family’s rations by returning with a tidy catch of whatever fish the Solent provided.

Then the chums related their experiences in the avalanche and of the race against time to enable them to join their ship.

“And it looks as if you’ve won by a good margin,” observed Mr. Gregory. “You’ll have more than an hour to get to the docks.”

A few minutes later the train came to a standstill. No one seemed to pay any attention to the fact, except that it hadn’t stopped at a station. Then, after a seemingly unaccountable delay of at least ten minutes, the passengers began, literally, to sit up and take notice.

“I thought there was only one stop—at Winchester—until we get to Southampton,” said another of the occupants of the carriage.

“Then you’ve guessed wrong for once,” rejoined his opposite number. Then, as the guard made his way along the corridor: “Why have we stopped?” he inquired.

The guard, who had been asked a similar question about twenty times in the last few minutes, grunted: “Line’s blocked!” and resumed his way.

The chums went out into the corridor and, leaning through the open window, saw the cause of the delay. A goods train engine had jumped the rails, with the result that both up and down lines were blocked. All along the whole length of the train, passengers were crowding to the corridor windows.

Another five minutes of inaction passed. The chums’ fears—that had persisted in varying degrees over the last four or five days—returned. Would the delay result in their missing their ship?

The guard came back, this time along the permanent way. He, being a stout person, chose that method rather than to attempt to force a passage along the now tightly packed corridor.

“We’re going back to Woking Junction, and then going on by the Portsmouth line,” he announced.

“What does that mean, sir?” asked Gerald of Mr. Gregory, after they had resumed their seats. “Will it take very much longer?”

“I’m afraid it will,” was the none-too-reassuring answer. “But you’ll do it, I think. Something often happens to delay a vessel’s departure beyond the advertised time.”

Slowly the train crawled backwards over the two miles’ stretch to Woking. Then there were more delays before it was again on its way.

Seemingly at long last the train pulled up at Southampton Terminus Station.

The time was five minutes to one. If the Golden Gleaner had kept to her schedule, by now she would be well on her way down Southampton Water.

“I’ll come along with you,” declared Mr. Gregory, unexpectedly. “I know where she berths—you don’t. Hello, Fishwick!”

A man in the rig of a professional yacht hand flung open the carriage door.

“Here, take hold of this!” exclaimed Mr. Gregory, handing the man a bulky kitbag. “All ready to start? Good! I’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Come along, you two!”

They had but to cross a busy road before they were in the docks. A policeman on the gate, recognizing the owner of Fidelity, passed them in without delay.

They had but a couple of hundred yards to go before arriving at the berth that the Golden Gleaner had occupied. She was no longer there. A dockside worker pointed her out as she was merging into the wintry haze over Southampton Water.

“Now what are you going to do?” asked Mr. Gregory.