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To the people a quarter of a mile away at Morston it sounded like a battle. After running half a mile, Ford, bruised and breathless, fell at full length on the grass beside the car. Near it, tearing from his person the last vestiges of a German uniform, he found Birrell. He also was puffing painfully. "What happened to Herbert?" panted Ford.
If a Coast Guard sees us, the authorities will have to believe him, and they'll call out the navy." Herbert consulted his map. "There is a Coast Guard," he said, "stationed just the other side of Morston. And," he added fervently, "let us hope he's lonely." They lost their way in the back roads, and when they again reached the coast an hour had passed. It was now quite dark.
"According to the route we mapped out this afternoon," said Herbert, "We are now scheduled to give exhibitions at the coast towns of Salthouse and Weybourne, but " "Not with me!" exclaimed Birrell fiercely. "Those towns have been tipped off by now by Blakeney and Cley, and the Boy Scouts would club us to death. I vote we take the back roads to Morston, and drop in on a lonely Coast Guard.
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