The coxswain stood up. “London”—a thick sound, for it is no easy thing to hail quietly. Then a little louder, in a tone almost melodramatic: “London ... London ... London—bridge!”
The bowman could not resist it. “Change at the Elephant an’ Castle!”
The crew heard. The crew choked down a laugh hurtful to the coxswain’s dignity. He turned on them.
“Knock orf chawin’ yer fat there,” he said angrily, and silence fell. Someone peered over the bridge rails.
“D’you know where the Vera ’angs out?” the coxswain asked quickly, before the other had time to hail him.
“Lyin’ outside at anchor. Comin’ to ’er buoy to-morrer.”
“Outside the ruddy ’arbour?”
“Yes.”
“Gawd!” The coxswain sat down disconsolately. “We shall ’ave a night of it,” he observed.
The music of the oars began again. They pulled slowly between the ships, beyond the ships, out of the harbour. Soon the Vera, an outpost of twinkling lights, beyond which lay the open sea, was hailing them. Much to his surprise, John was welcomed by the officer of the watch.