“I can make semaphore all right,” replied the R.N.R., “but when it comes to reading it I get all of a dither. ’P’raps the cook can read it.”
The cook replied at once that it was Greek to him, or words to that effect. The destroyer, accordingly, after waiting some time and growing more angry, went up to windward and anchored.
“Now,” said the R.N.V.R. to the R.N.R., “you talked a lot about your semaphore. Just make them a signal to send us a dozen engine-room ratings and an engineer officer, and we’ll raise steam and proceed to the Downs. Thank them for coming to see us, by the way. They’re getting peevish.”
The R.N.R., in terms of diplomatic suasion, signalled accordingly, and towards dusk a drenched boatload of the Royal Navy, Engine-room Department, arrived on board. Refreshed with Madeira from the captain’s saloon, they proceeded to the engine-room, filled the boilers, lit the furnaces, and had steam raised by daylight. The steamer then slipped her cables, which had become too foul to weigh, substituted an Admiralty-pattern kedge for the lost anchors, and proceeded modestly under her own steam and the destroyer’s escort to the Downs.
A month later the R.N.V.R. met the R.N.R. ashore.
“’Member that derelict we salved together,” said the R.N.V.R. “I’ve been up to London to see about salvage and all that.”
The R.N.R. brightened considerably.
“She’s worth £120,000, light,” he said.
“She is,” was the reply, in detached tones such as the Chancellor of the Exchequer might employ to outline his Budget; “but she was on Government charter. As she was salved by”—he took a long breath—“Naval officers, there ain’t any salvage.”