'Why doesn't we 'ave a pop at 'er?'
''Ave a pop at 'er! She's twenty mile orf, if she's a hinch, an' yer knows as well as I does that none o' our ships 'ere 'as got hanti-haircraft guns wot'll 'it 'er at that range.' Joshua sucked his teeth, and proceeded to explore the inner recesses of his mouth with the end of a burnt match.
'Why doesn't we chase 'er, then?'
'Chase 'er! Wot's the good? She kin go 'er fifty knots, an'll be orf like a rigger afore we gits anywheres near 'er. She'll watch it she don't git inter trouble. You ain't got a fag or a fill o' bacca abart yer, I s'pose?'
Pincher shook his head firmly. He knew Joshua of old.
Billings smiled affably, produced a well-blackened clay from the pocket of his lammy coat, and proceeded to light it. 'Ah!' he sighed contentedly, patting himself gently on the stomach and puffing out a cloud of smoke, 'that drop o' cocoa done me orl th' good in the world. I feels has bright an' has fresh as a li'l dicky-bird.'
Pincher smiled, for the simile was hardly an apt one. Joshua had kept the first watch till midnight, and, after four hours' sleep in his clothes, had been up again since four o'clock as a member of the duty gun's crew. His eyes were sleepy and bloodshot, his hands and face were indescribably filthy, and his chin sported an ugly stubble of three days' growth. He was not a pleasant sight. Moreover, it was summer, and the weather was perfectly fine and unusually warm; but, true to the custom of the British bluejacket, he was wearing sufficient clothing to keep the cold from an Antarctic explorer. His figure was ponderous at the best of times; it was now elephantine, and anything less like a dicky-bird it was impossible to imagine.
'That bloke,' he went on, pointing with his pipe-stem at the far-away airship, 'is spyin' art th' land. She's 'avin' a "looksee" at wot we're doin' of, an' I shouldn't wonder but wot ole Zep wus up there hisself. I did 'ear as 'ow 'e'd bin given th' Iron Cross.'
'Garn!' chortled Pincher rudely. 'Wot for?'
'Strafin', fat'ead; wot else d'you think? Probably 'e's usin' 'is wireless an' tellin' ole Tirpitz as 'ow we've come 'ere to pay 'im a visit. "Tirps, ole fella," 'e sez, "these 'ere gordamned Henglish swine 'ounds 'ave come agen." "Sorry, Zep, ole chum," sez Tirps; "I carn't attend to 'em now. I'm hinvited ter breakfuss wi' th' Hadmiral o' th' 'Igh Sea Fleet, an' I carn't git wastin' of 'is bacon an' heggs in these 'ere 'ard times. Tell th' Henglish ter shove orf outa it, an' ter come agen, an' I'll 'ave a few submarines an' mines awaitin' for 'em. Th' navy's 'avin' its make an' mend,[ [35] an' carn't be disturbed." That's wot ole man Tirps is sayin', I'll give yer my word.'