The light cruisers in the meanwhile were fuming among themselves: even members of the same family do not relish gratuitous insult. “Funny little fellows!” said one bitterly. “But there! What can you expect from a destroyer: neither fish, flesh, fowl, nor good red herring. I took a couple out last month for a blow through; had to send the poor little things back because it was too rough for them.”
“Poor little things!” said another acidly. “Their plating is thin, isn’t it?... Well, as I was saying when all this vulgar interruption happened, my Chief rigged a Weston’s purchase and lifted off the top of my L.P. cylinder ...” and they plunged into their private affairs again.
The destroyers remaining in the T.B.D. anchorage felt that somehow the last word remained with the light cruisers.
“Always talkin’ obstetrics ...” floated across the heave and uneasy motion of the moonlit harbour from the flotilla trot.
“I know. Disgustin’....”
After which, conversation among the light cruisers perceptibly dwindled.
From out of the wind-swept spaces of the North Sea as the night wore on came a murmur of voices: it grew nearer and deepened: “Ho, there! Gate, gate!”
Position lights winked amongst the assembled fleet as a squadron of battle cruisers loomed up, black as doom, in the entrance of the bay. One by one in line ahead they passed to their anchorage and picked up their berths with a thunderous roar of cables.
“Clear hawse!” cried the battle squadrons from their orderly lines. This is the greeting from ships at anchor to those that enter harbour.
“Clear hawse to you,” said the new-comers. They were on a visit from a more southerly base and there was a good deal of ceremonious exchange of compliments between them and the battleships. “Hope you’ll find the billets to your liking,” said the latter, “plenty of swinging room and so on. Oilers will be alongside at daybreak, but in the meanwhile if there is anything you’d like ...?”