during the initial stages of the life of the r.a.f. marine training depot there was one thing missing. no doubt there were others, but this one, in the eyes of the c.o. and officers, was of great moment. the men would fall in on parade smartly and rapidly; the colours would be hoisted at nine in the morning with éclat; there were sentries posted to pay proper compliments to officers; and a superb gun-metal bell tolled out the hours and half-hours in correct ship's time.
but there was no bugler; nor was there a bugle even if a bugler had been forthcoming. and a bugler capable of blowing a loud-sounding bugle was a desideratum. he would become the coping-stone of the building of efficiency.
the major did his level best to obtain some boy scout buglers from fisherton, but, false to their precepts, the youngsters were not prepared to use their breath for two shillings a day on behalf of the r.a.f. when they could earn thrice that amount elsewhere.
it looked as if sableridge depot would fail to attain that degree of pomp and circumstance when fate, in the guise of the drafting officer at blandborough depot, played into its hands. amongst a batch of new arrivals was a gem, a priceless jewel—a man who could blow a bugle.
he was a short, tubby individual with watery-blue eyes and a flat, rubicund nose. quiet and unassuming, his arrival was hailed with acclamation. had he asked for a silver trumpet and a pair of wings of a slightly different type to those worn by airmen no doubt the delighted officers would have done their level best to accede to his request. as it was they subscribed and purchased a trumpet, the sounds of which floated across the parade-ground in a manner calculated to raise the martial spirit of all ranks well above boiling-point.
morning, noon, and night the clarion-like notes made the welkin ring. from réveillé to retreat and last post, and whenever circumstances demanded, there was the depot bugler with his highly-polished and tasselled trumpet.
for nearly a week this idyllic state of affairs continued, until the wellnigh exhausted bugler applied for leave in order to proceed to belfast to bury a near relative.
he was granted seven days, and took his departure forthwith. a gloom descended over sableridge. the polished bugle was silent, and reposed on a green baize-covered table in the orderly-room like a fairy princess awaiting the arrival of the enchanter to restore her to life.
the week passed, but no bugler returned. at the end of ten days he was posted as a deserter. enquiries at belfast showed that he had not been seen there, nor were any of his relations in need of his services as a mourner.
then came the staggering blow. the meek and mild musical treasure was under lock and key, arrested by the civil police for at least half a dozen burglaries. the last heard of him was that he had received a sentence calculated to carry him well beyond the "duration", and the shattered idol was not replaced. sableridge carried on without a bugler.
a day or so after the disappearance of the bugler derek had to take his crew out into the bay for further instruction. it was mostly compass work and fixing positions by cross-bearings, and since speed was against successful work, the boat was slowed down and a trawl shot. this was killing two birds with one stone: there was plenty of time for compass-bearings, while there was a chance of supplying the mess with fish.
the first cast was a failure owing to the net getting foul of a submerged rock, but on the second attempt it became evident by the weight of the net that something was enmeshed.
"we've a good haul this time, i think," exclaimed derek.
"let's hope so, sir," announced the coxswain. "we can't be too sure, though. i remember my brother telling me about when he was off the dardanelles—up mudros way to be exact—he an' some pals did a lot of trawling. they thought they had a jolly good catch, but when they hauled in the net they found two dead mules and two old boots."
slowly the weed-encumbered meshes were hauled inboard until the bulging pocket came in sight, packed with white and grey writhing fish—skate, flounder, and two large dog-fish.
"those flat fish are all right," continued the coxswain. "i don't know about those skate. rummy-lookin' creatures, ain't they, sir?"
the deep bass hum of an aerial propeller attracted the crew's attention from the catch. five hundred feet overhead was a coastal airship which had drifted down silently with her engines shut off, and, having just restarted her motors, was manoeuvring into the wind's eye.
perhaps it was as well that r.a.f. 1164 b carried on her fore-deck a square of canvas painted with the distinctive red, white, and blue circles. this device was a guarantee of her identity as a friend. without it a small, grey-painted craft might easily be mistaken for a u-boat, with disastrous results.
then the engines were stopped again. over the side of the nacelle a leather-helmeted and begoggled head appeared. the pilot, raising a megaphone to his lips, hailed:
"r.a.f. launch ahoy! any fish to spare us?"
"right-o!" shouted derek in reply, but his voice was apparently inaudible to the airship's crew, for the hail was repeated.
"hold up some fish and let them see," ordered derek.
one of the men displayed the largest skate, a lozenge-shaped fish measuring more than a yard from fin to fin.
"that's done them!" exclaimed derek.
but he was mistaken. like a cormorant swooping down from a beacon, the huge and seemingly ungainly airship tilted her nose and dropped almost vertically until her nacelle was within fifty or sixty feet of the water. then, with her propeller revolving at a reduced rate, she forged ahead on a similar course to that of the motor-boat.
"by jove! she's paying out her aerial. that's a smart move," announced derek. "easy ahead! follow her up, coxswain."
rapidly the thin but strong wire was unwound until the end dangled within reach of the crew of the boat. in a trice one of the men grasped the wire and bent it round the tail of the skate.
"haul in!" shouted derek.
"thanks, old man!" yelled the blimp's pilot in reply. "when you've a chance, look us up at netherton. we'll give you a joy-ride."
"sure thing!" replied derek. "i'm on it!"
the airship rose slowly, her crew still winding in the skate that was revolving rapidly at the end of the aerial; then, having gained possession of the novel catch, the blimp bore swiftly southwards to resume her patrol, while no. 1164 b steadied on her helm and shaped a course back to the bar buoy.
happening to glance aft, derek was somewhat surprised to find a small black kitten in the after-cockpit.
"what's that animal doing on board?" he demanded.
"our mascot, sir," replied one of the men. "the adjutant's dog chased it on board just before we left the pier."
"no. 17 coming out, sir," reported the coxswain, pointing to a motor-craft that was approaching at high speed. interest in the kitten was transferred to the oncoming boat.
"she's signalling, sir," continued the coxswain, as a man holding a couple of hand-flags mounted the plunging fore-deck.
"will you take sergeant-instructor jenkins on board for the purpose of adjusting compass?" read the coxswain.
both boats slowed down on approaching, and rounded gunwale to gunwale. the sergeant, a short, burly man, who looked what he was—a seaman ex-r.n., in spite of his khaki uniform—saluted, and stepped into no. 1164 b.
"ready to carry on, sir?" he asked.
"yes, carry on, sergeant," replied derek.
the n.c.o. bent down to unship the hood of the compass. as he did so the kitten scrambled upon his back and on to his shoulder. with a yell the sergeant dropped the metal hood fairly on the top of the compass. the glass cracked, the compass tilted on its gimbals, and the liquid poured from the bowl.
"that's gone west, sir!" exclaimed the sergeant apologetically. "sorry, sir; it was that blessed cat. can't stick cats at any price. completely up-end me, they do."
it was evident that nothing further could be done in the matter of adjusting that compass. the n.c.o. was profuse in his regrets, but regrets were unable to repair the damaged instrument. accordingly the coxswain was ordered to take the boat back into the harbour.
"yes, sir," resumed the sergeant. "cats are my 'beatty nowhere', [1] as the frenchies say. can't stick 'em at any price," he reiterated. "got disrated once over a party of cats."
"eh?" exclaimed derek incredulously.
"fact, sir; it was in '97, when i was yeoman of signals on the spondulux—third-class cruiser she was. we were lying off the west coast, with awnings rigged day and night, and all that sort o' thing, and perishing hot it was, too. well, we had a cat on board, which was bad enough, but, to make matters worse, the cat had kittens. one night i was keeping the middle watch when i heard a most awful racket. you'll understand, sir, we had the poop awning set, and the dew had stretched it as tight as a drum. there was that cat and her kittens careering up and down the awning and playing all sorts of pranks. the skipper rings his bell, so down i goes to his cabin. 'what's that?' he asked, holding up his hand, as if i couldn't hear plain enough. 'cats, sir,' says i. 'stop it,' says he. those being my orders i had to carry 'em out. so out i turned, creeping along the ridge-rope of that blessed awning trying to collar the furry brood, or, rather, to drive 'em for'ard, 'cause touching 'em always sends cold shivers down my back. i hadn't gone a couple of yards before the awning parted, and down i went through the hole smack upon the poop. the bloke (commander) comes tumbling up out of his cabin, swears i've been skylarking, and takes away my badges."
against the strong ebb tide r.a.f. 1164 b rubbed alongside the pier. the men were ascending the steps when the officer of the watch appeared.
"what's that kitten doing on board?" he enquired; then, without waiting for an explanation, he continued: "sergeant jenkins, hand that animal out."
the harassed instructor obeyed, although there were strong indications of repugnance as he handled the inoffensive little kitten.
the officer of the watch caught derek's eye. the officers winked at each other, for each knew sergeant jenkins's antipathy.
"that's the stuff to give 'em," murmured the o.w.
[1] bête noire.
