“All very fine for you to talk,” said the fat man with the eagle of the Navy-that-Flies on the sleeve of his monkey-jacket. “Only crossed over from Dunkirk this morning by the destroyer. Fell in with these—Thugs at Waterloo, and spent the best part of the journey under the seat.”
“We had to strafe him,” explained Longridge. “Twice in the train and once in the car. He would try and kiss his hand to all the loveliest of God’s creatures we saw.”
Their host groaned. “What was she like—the last one, I mean?”
“In a governess cart,” said Mayhew, “with two kids and a pink hat.”
The Flying Man put down his glass. “The pink hat may have been hers,” he said, “but I’m blowed if——”
“No,” said Aughtlone quickly. “No, they’re her nieces. That’s the vicar’s daughter. ‘Mr. Jerome, you’ll get me ’ung,’ as Harker used to say.”
“Not ’tall,” said the graceless one. “She was much too busy looking after the fat pony to notice us. ’Sides——”
Mayhew glanced at his watch. “What time’s dinner, Tony? Because what I’d like to do is ‘strip right down an’ ’ave a barf. I can’t really talk till I’ve had a tub.”
“Me too,” chimed in Longridge. “Chops and I have come straight down from the Northern Base, travelling all night.”
The host pressed the bell. “Loads of time. Dinner’s not for another three-quarters of an hour. Have a cigarette and tell us about the Great Silent Navy. Remember, I’m only a dug-out East-coast Minesweeper—a humble country squire masquerading as a naval officer—and I want to hear about things. There wasn’t a Grand Fleet when I retired.”