“A what?”
“Cow, sir, overboard.”
“Quite right. Milk and water,” came in muffled tones.
“Beg pardon, sir, what shall I do?”
“Go and milk her, and don’t bother me.”
“But she’s swimming under the cliff, sir.”
“Go and ask her on board, then. Be off!”
Archy Raystoke knew his commanding officer’s ways, and after waiting a few moments, he said softly, after giving a tap or two on the panel—
“Shall I take the boat and get her aboard?”
There was a loud rustle; a bang as if some one had struck the bulkhead with his elbow, and then a voice roared—