The Submarine Hunters

"Hard lines if we were," commented Ross. "Suppose we take an inventory of our possessions? Let the see: one pocket-knife, a silver watch that has refused duty, a notebook and pencil, and five shillings and three halfpence. What have you to add to the common stock?"

"A knife, a pocket compass, my watch—which does go; it's now five-and-twenty to four—and sixteen shillings and eightpence in paper money and hard coin."

"Not a morsel of grub between the pair of us, then," declared Ross. "Outlook beastly unpromising. Faced with starvation unless we make up our minds to knock over some gulls. They are horribly fishy to eat, I believe, and we've nothing to make a fire."

"It makes you pine for the flesh-pots of Kllligwent Hall, old man," exclaimed Vernon laughingly. "Never mind, let's make a move. I vote we get rid of these sweaters. It is frightfully hot."

Stripping off their woollen garments, and placing them for safety under a gorse bush, the two lads made their way up the steep ascent to the ruins, till, hot and well-nigh breathless in spite of being "in training", they reached the summit of the island.

"What a jolly view!" exclaimed Vernon, turning and taking in the panorama of rocky coast-line, an expanse of jagged, frowning, brownish cliffs topped by the brilliant green of the Cornish moorland.

"Not bad," agreed Ross complaisantly, for the view was no stranger to him. "See that cliff shaped like the head and shoulders of a bearded man? That's Hidden Money Cove that I was speaking to you about last night. We'll go there next week, all being well. You see, there's not a sail in sight, so our chances of getting back to dinner are very remote. What's more, unless I'm very much mistaken, there's a rain-storm coming. See that dark cloud working up against the wind?"

"Yes," assented Haye. "What of it? A little rain won't hurt."

"It's the after effect," said Ross. "It's quite possible it may blow hard before night, in which case we're done for. I've known it impossible to approach Killigwent Cove for a week at a time."

Vernon whistled.

"Sounds lively," he remarked.

"Of course that is in the winter," his chum hastened to remind him. "These summer gales don't last very long, but we'll be feeling precious hungry by the time we get home, I guess."

"Look here," said Vernon after a while. "I vote we get those sweaters. We don't want to be soaked."

"Very well," assented Ross. "But there's no great hurry."

Having retrieved the sweaters, the chums leisurely retraced their way to the ruins. For half an hour or more they wandered around the remains, descending into the dark crypt, and running considerable risk in climbing to the summit of the tower. Since the spiral stone steps had vanished long ago, the only means of getting to the top was by climbing the gnarled stem of the ivy which grew profusely on the face of the building. The tower was roofless, a low, partly demolished parapet encircling it on three sides, while a couple of weather-worn oak-beams supporting a few planks formed a kind of platform where the roof formerly existed.

"Think it's safe?" asked Vernon anxiously, as his chum, having got astride the parapet, was about to lower himself upon the decrepit woodwork.

"I've done it scores of times," said Ross confidently. "That's right, I'll guide your foot. Now let go."

"By Jove!" suddenly exclaimed Haye; "there's a fellow coming towards the ruin. How on earth did he get here?"

"Goodness only knows," said Trefusis inconsequently. "He may have landed in Main Beach Cove. Anyhow, he's at perfect liberty to do so. I suppose he's interested in ruins."

"Let's drop a bit of stone and give him a shock when he gets here," suggested Vernon. "We'll apologize afterwards. Ten to one he'll give us a passage back."

"I'm not so keen on dropping chunks of stone," objected Ross. "I vote we lie low for a bit at any rate, and see what he's up to."

"Why, do you think he's a spy?" asked his companion. Trefusis grunted scoffingly.

"Spy?" he repeated. "What object would a spy have on St. Mena's Island? This part of Cornwall is well outside the military area. There's nothing in the fortification line for miles. No, it's not that. But cave, here he comes."

The lads crouched behind the crumbling parapet, and by means of conveniently placed gaps in the masonry watched the stranger's approach.

There was nothing about the man's appearance to suggest that he was anything but an ordinary holiday-maker. He was slightly above average height, rather heavily built, and inclined to flabbiness. His complexion was undoubtedly florid, although his face and hands were tanned a deep brown.

He was dressed in a light-grey lounge suit, with a straw hat and brown shoes, while in his right hand he carried a thick Malacca cane.

The exertion of climbing up the hill on which the ruined chapel stood apparently told upon him, for he was considerably out of breath when he passed under the ivy-clad arch. Here he stopped to wipe his face with a handkerchief, and while doing so dropped his cane.