The destroyer had cast anchor and dropped a boat. With the terrible precision of a hawk or a warship closing on its prey, she was on to the Sarah. A blue and gold man held the yoke lines, and the oars of the rowers rowed like one.
“Look at that image on the sternsheets,” said Sellers.
“Leave him to me,” said Satan.
“What’s your game?”
“Shut your head! Here he is!”
The boat came alongside. The oars rising like one, fell with a crash, the bow oar hooked on, and over the rail came a sublieutenant of the British Navy, smooth of face and neat as though just taken from a bandbox.
“What the devil are you fellows up to, fighting here?” asked the sublieutenant.
Satan broke into a laugh.
“We’re movie men,” said Satan.
“You’re what?”