'No, but come up when you've put the kettle on. It's a pretty beat up
the fiord. Lovely breeze.'
His legs disappeared. A sort of buoyant fatalism possessed me as I fin-
ished my notes and pored over the stove. It upheld me, too, when I went
on deck and watched the'pretty beat', whose prettiness was mainly due
to the crowd of fog-bound shipping— steamers, smacks, and sailing-ves-
sels— now once more on the move in the confined fairway of the fiord,
their baleful eyes of red, green, or yellow, opening and shutting, bright-
ening and fading; while shore-lights and anchor-lights added to my be-
wilderment, and a throbbing of screws filled the air like the distant roar
of London streets. In fact, every time we spun round for our dart across
the fiord I felt like a rustic matron gathering her skirts for the transit of
the Strand on a busy night. Davies, however, was the street arab who
zigzags under the horses'feet unscathed; and all the time he discoursed
placidly on the simplicity and safety of night-sailing if only you are care-
ful, obeying rules, and burnt good lights. As we were nearing the hot
glow in the sky that denoted Kiel we passed a huge scintillating bulk
moored in mid-stream.'Warships,'he murmured, ecstatically.
'I SAY, Davies,'I said,'how long do you think this trip will last? I've
only got a month's leave.'
We were standing at slanting desks in the Kiel post-office, Davies
scratching diligently at his letter-card, and I staring feebly at mine.
'By Jove!'said Davies, with a start of dismay;'that's only three weeks
more; I never thought of that. You couldn't manage to get an extension,
could you?'
'I can write to the chief,'I admitted;'but where's the answer to come
to? We're better without an address, I suppose.'
'There's Cuxhaven,'reflected Davies;'but that's too near, and
there's— but we don't want to be tied down to landing anywhere. I tell
you what: say “Post Office, Norderney”, just your name, not the yacht's.
We may get there and be able to call for letters.'The casual character of
our adventure never struck me more strongly than then.
'Is that what you're doing?'I asked.
'Oh, I shan't be having important letters like you.'
'But what are you saying?'
'Oh, just that we're having a splendid cruise, and are on our way
home.'
The notion tickled me, Cheap Gucci Belt and I said the same in my home letter, adding
that we were looking for a friend of Davies's who would be able to show
us some sport. I wrote a line, too, to my chief (unaware of the gravity of
the step I was taking) saying it was possible that I might have to apply
for longer leave, as I had important business to transact in Germany, and
asking him kindly to write to the same address. Then we shouldered our
parcels and resumed our business.
Two full dinghy-loads of Stores we ferried to the Dulcibella, chief
among which were two immense cans of petroleum, constituting our
reserves of heat and light, and a sack of flour. There were spare ropes
and blocks, too; German charts of excellent quality; cigars and many
weird brands of sausage and tinned meats, besides a miscellany of odd-
ments, some of which only served in the end to slake my companion's
craving for jettison. Clothes were my own chief care, for, freely as I had
purged it at Flensburg, my wardrobe was still very unsuitable, and I had
already irretrievably damaged two faultless pairs of white flannels. ('We
shall be able to throw them overboard,'said Davies, hopefully.) So I
bought a great pair of seaboots of the country, felt-lined and wooden-
soled, and both of us got a number of rough woollen garments (as worn
by the local fishermen), breeches, jerseys, helmets, gloves; all of a colour
chosen to harmonize with paraffin stains and anchor mud.
The same evening we were taking our last look at the Baltic, sailing
past warships and groups of idle yachts battened down for their winter's
sleep; while the noble shores of the fiord, with its villas embowered in
copper foliage, grew dark and dim above us.
We rounded the last headland, steered for a galaxy of coloured lights,
tumbled down our sails, and came to under the colossal gates of the Hol-
tenau lock. That these would open to such an infinitesimal suppliant
seemed inconceivable. But open they did, with ponderous majesty, and
our tiny hull was lost in the womb of a lock designed to float the largest
battleships. I thought of Boulter's on a hot August Sunday, and
wondered if I really was the same peevish dandy who had jostled and
sweltered there with the noisy cockney throng a month ago. There was a
blaze of electricity overhead, but utter silence till a solitary cloaked figure
hailed us and called for the captain. Davies ran up a ladder, disappeared
with the cloaked figure, and returned crumpling a paper into his pocket.
It lies before me now, and sets forth, under the stamp of the Königliches
Zollamt, that, in consideration of the sum of ten marks for dues and four
for tonnage, an imperial tug would tow the vessel Dulcibella (master A.
H. Davies) through the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal from Holtenau to
Brunsbüttel. Magnificent condescension! I blush when I look at this yel-
low document and remember the stately courtesy of the great lock gates;
for the sleepy officials of the Königliches Zollamt little knew what an in-
sidious little viper they were admitting into the imperial bosom at the
light toll of fourteen shillings.
'Seems cheap,'said Davies, joining me,'doesn't it? They've a regular
tariff on tonnage, same for yachts as for liners. We start at four to-mor-
row with a lot of other boats. I wonder if Bartels is here.'
