We took up a telegram that was lying on his desk and opened it. His face became a livid yellow. He put the flimsy paper down with a slow, reluctant movement and took off his glasses. “George,” he said, “the luck’s against us.” “What?” He grimaced with his mouth—in the queerest way at the telegram. “That.” I took it up and read: “Motor smash compound fracture of the leg gordon nasmyth what price mordet now” For a moment neither of us spoke. “That’s all right,” I said at last. “Eh?” said my uncle. “_I’m_ going. I’ll get that quap or bust.” II I had a ridiculous persuasion that I was “saving the situation.” “I’m going,” I said quite consciously and dramatically. I saw the whole affair—how shall I put it?—in American colours. I sat down beside him. “Give me all the data you’ve got,” I said, “and I’ll pull this thing off.” “But nobody knows exactly where—” “Nasmyth does, and he’ll tell me.” “He’s been very close,” said my uncle, and regarded me. “He’ll tell me all right, now he’s smashed.” He thought. “I believe he will.” “George,” he said, “if you pull this thing off—Once or twice before you’ve stepped in—with that sort of Woosh of yours—” He left the sentence unfinished. “Give me that note-book,” I said, “and tell me all you know. Where’s the ship? Where’s Pollack? And where’s that telegram from? If that quap’s to be got, I’ll get it or bust. If you’ll hold on here until I get back with it.”... And so it was I jumped into the wildest adventure of my life. I requisitioned my uncle’s best car forthwith. I went down that night to the place of despatch named on Nasmyth’s telegram, Bampton S.O. Oxon, routed him out with a little trouble from that centre, made things right with him and got his explicit directions; and I was inspecting the _Maud Mary_ with young Pollack, his cousin and aide, the following afternoon. She was rather a shock to me and not at all in my style, a beast of a brig inured to the potato trade, and she reeked from end to end with the faint, subtle smell of raw potatoes so that it prevailed even over the temporary smell of new paint. She was a beast of a brig, all hold and dirty framework, and they had ballasted her with old iron and old rails and iron sleepers, and got a miscellaneous lot of spades and iron wheelbarrows against the loading of the quap. I thought her over with Pollack, one of those tall blond young men who smoke pipes and don’t help much, and then by myself, and as a result I did my best to sweep Gravesend clean of wheeling planks, and got in as much cord and small rope as I could for lashing. I had an idea we might need to run up a jetty. In addition to much ballast she held, remotely hidden in a sort of inadvertent way a certain number of ambiguous cases which I didn’t examine, but which I gathered were a provision against the need of a trade.