I turned swiftly and found that the man who had addressed me so cheerily was none other than Tony Dibble.
"Why, Dibble!" I returned, warmly, and clasped his hand.
"I thought you was on your way to Liverpool."
"I just got in Boston," I returned.
"And where's the Spitfire?"
"At the bottom of the Atlantic, Dibble."
"No!" He stared at me for a moment. "Then the old man——" he began in a whisper.
"Hush! not so loud!" I interrupted. "Somebody may overhear you."
"That's so." He lowered his voice still more. "She was really done for, then?"
"Yes, burned up."