“Will you please come to the switchboard, sir? There’s a man in the Ipswich call office who has just told me a most extraordinary story. He says that he started in his motor-car alone from Lowestoft to London at half-past three this morning, and just as it was getting light he was passing along the edge of Henham Park, between Wangford village and Blythburgh, when he saw three men apparently repairing the telegraph wires. One was up the pole, and the other two were standing below. As he passed he saw a flash, for, to his surprise, one of the men fired point-blank at him with a revolver. Fortunately, the shot went wide, and he at once put on a move and got down into Blythburgh village, even though one of his tyres went down. It had probably been pierced by the bullet fired at him, as the puncture was unlike any he had ever had before. At Blythburgh he informed the police of the outrage, and the constable, in turn, woke up the postmaster, who tried to telegraph back to the police at Wrentham, but found that the line was interrupted. Was it possible that the men were cutting the wires, instead of repairing them? He says that after repairing the puncture he took the village constable and three other men on his car and went back to the spot, where, although the trio had escaped, they saw that wholesale havoc had been wrought with the telegraphs. The lines had been severed in four or five places, and whole lengths tangled up into great masses. A number of poles had been sawn down, and were lying about the roadside. Seeing that nothing could be done, the gentleman remounted his car, came on to Ipswich, and reported the damage at our call office.” “And is he still there?” exclaimed the superintendent quickly, amazed at the motorist’s statement. “Yes. I asked him to wait for a few moments in order to speak to you, sir.” “Good. I’ll go at once. Perhaps you’d like to come also, Mr. Fergusson?” And all four ran up to the gallery, where the huge switchboards were ranged around, and where the night operators, with the receivers attached to one ear, were still at work. In a moment the superintendent had taken the operator’s seat, adjusted the ear-piece, and was in conversation with Ipswich. A second later he was speaking with the man who had actually witnessed the cutting of the trunk line. While he was thus engaged an operator at the farther end of the switchboard suddenly gave vent to a cry of surprise and disbelief. “What do you say, Beccles? Repeat it,” he asked excitedly. Then a moment later he shouted aloud-- “Beccles says that German soldiers--hundreds of them--are pouring into the place! The Germans have landed at Lowestoft, they think.” All who heard those ominous words sprang up dumbfounded, staring at each other. The assistant-superintendent dashed to the operator’s side and seized his apparatus. “Halloa--halloa, Beccles! Halloa--halloa--halloa!”