The Pit-Prop Syndicate, Freeman Wills Crofts [books to read for 12 year olds .txt] 📗

A more ideal position for an observation post could hardly have been selected.

“Try to lift the lid,” whispered Hilliard.

They found it was merely laid on the rim, cleats nailed on below preventing it from slipping off. They raised it easily and Hilliard flashed in a beam from his electric torch. The cask was empty, evidently a result of the long drought.

“That’ll do,” Merriman breathed. “That’s all we want to see. Come away.”

They lowered the cover and stood for a moment. Hilliard still wanted to try the doors of the shed, but Merriman would not hear of it.

“Come away,” he whispered again. “We’ve done well. Why spoil it?”

They returned to the boat and there argued it out. Merriman’s proposal was to try to find out when the Girondin was expected, then come the night before, bore a few eyeholes in the cask, and let one of them, properly supplied with provisions, get inside and assume watch. The other one would row away, rest and sleep during the day, and return on the following night, when they would exchange roles, and so on until the Girondin left. In this way, he asserted, they must infallibly discover the truth, at least about the smuggling.

“Do you think we could stand twenty-four hours in that barrel?” Hilliard questioned.

“Of course we could stand it. We’ve got to. Come on, Hilliard, it’s the only way.”

It did not require much persuasion to get Hilliard to fall in with the proposal, and they untied their painter and pulled silently away from the wharf. The tide had turned, and soon they relaxed their efforts and let the boat drift gently downstream. The first faint light appeared in the eastern sky as they floated past Hassle, and for an hour afterwards they lay in the bottom of the boat, smoking peacefully and entranced by the gorgeous pageant of the coming day.

Not wishing to reach Hull too early, they rowed inshore and, landing in a little bay, lay down in the lush grass and slept for three or four hours. Then re-embarking, they pulled and drifted on until, between seven and eight o’clock, they reached the wharf at which they had hired their boat. An hour later they were back at their hotel, recuperating from the fatigues of the night with the help of cold baths and a substantial breakfast.

VIII The Unloading of the Girondin

After breakfast Hilliard disappeared. He went out ostensibly to post a letter, but it was not until nearly three o’clock that he turned up again.

“Sorry, old man,” he greeted Merriman, “but when I was going to the post office this morning an idea struck me, and it took me longer to follow up than I anticipated. I’ll tell you. I suppose you realise that life in that barrel won’t be very happy for the victim?”

“It’ll be damnable,” Merriman agreed succinctly, “but we needn’t worry about that; we’re in for it.”

“Oh, quite,” Hilliard returned. “But just for that reason we don’t want more of it than is necessary. We could easily bury ourselves twenty-four hours too soon.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we mustn’t go back to the wharf until the night before the Girondin arrives.”

“Don’t see how we can be sure of that.”

“Nor did I till I posted my letter. Then I got my idea. It seemed worth following up, so I went round the shipping offices until I found a file of Lloyd’s List. As you know it’s a daily paper which gives the arrivals and departures of all ships at the world’s ports. My notion was that if we could make a list of the Girondin’s Ferriby arrivals and departures, say, during the last three months, and if we found she ran her trip regularly, we could forecast when she would be next due. Follow me?”

“Rather.”

“I had no trouble getting out my list, but I found it a bit disappointing. The trip took either ten, eleven, or twelve days, and for a long time I couldn’t discover the ruling factor. Then I found it was Sunday. If you omit each Sunday the Girondin is in port, the round trip always takes the even ten days. I had the Lesque arrival and departure for that one trip when we were there, so I was able to make out the complete cycle. She takes two days in the Lesque to load, three to run to Hull, two at Ferriby to discharge, and three to return to France. Working from that and her last call here, she should be due back early on Friday morning.”

“Good!” Merriman exclaimed. “Jolly good! And today is Thursday. We’ve just time to get ready.”

They went out and bought a one-inch auger and a three-sixteenths bradawl, a thick footstool and a satchel. This latter they packed with a loaf, some cheese, a packet of figs, a few bottles of soda water and a flask of whisky. These, with their caps, rubber shoes, electric torches and the black cloth, they carried to their boat; then returning to the hotel, they spent the time resting there until eleven o’clock. Solemnly they drew lots for the first watch, recognizing that the matter was by no means a joke, as, if unloading were carried on by night, relief might be impossible during the ship’s stay. But Merriman, to whom the fates were propitious, had no fear of his ability to hold out even for this period.

By eleven-thirty they were again sculling up the river. The weather was as perfect as that of the night before, except that on this occasion a faint westerly breeze had covered the surface of the water with myriads of tiny wavelets, which lapped and gurgled round the stem of their boat as they drove it gently through them. They did not hurry, and it was after one before they moored to the depot steps.

All was dark and silent above, as, carrying their purchases, they mounted to the wharf and crept stealthily to the barrel. Carefully they raised