“I can write to the chief,” I admitted; “but where’s the answer to come to? We’re better without an address, I suppose.”
“There’s Cuxhaven,” reflected Davies; “but that’s too near, and there’s—but we don’t want to be tied down to landing anywhere. I tell you what: say ‘Post Office, Norderney’, just your name, not the yacht’s. We _may_ get there and be able to call for letters.” The casual character of our adventure never struck me more strongly than then.
“Oh, I shan’t be having important letters like you.”
“Oh, just that we’re having a splendid cruise, and are on our way home.”
The notion tickled me, and I said the same in my home letter, adding that we were looking for a friend of Davies’s who would be able to show us some sport. I wrote a line, too, to my chief (unaware of the gravity of the step I was taking) saying it was possible that I might have to apply for longer leave, as I had important business to transact in Germany, and asking him kindly to write to the same address. Then we shouldered our parcels and resumed our business.
Two full dinghy-loads of stores we ferried to the _Dulcibella_, chief among which were two immense cans of petroleum, constituting our reserves of heat and light, and a sack of flour. There were spare ropes and blocks, too; German charts of excellent quality; cigars and many weird brands of sausage and tinned meats, besides a miscellany of oddments, some of which only served in the end to slake my companion’s craving for jettison. Clothes were my own chief care, for, freely as I had purged it at Flensburg, my wardrobe was still very unsuitable, and I had already irretrievably damaged two faultless pairs of white flannels. (“We shall be able to throw them overboard,” said Davies, hopefully.) So I bought a great pair of seaboots of the country, felt-lined and wooden-soled, and both of us got a number of rough woollen garments (as worn by the local fishermen), breeches, jerseys, helmets, gloves; all of a colour chosen to harmonise with paraffin stains and anchor mud.
The same evening we were taking our last look at the Baltic, sailing past warships and groups of idle yachts battened down for their winter’s sleep; while the noble shores of the fiord, with its villas embowered in copper foliage, grew dark and dim above us.