"But, sir. I really——"
"I require no explanations, sir. You are guilty of gross neglect and carelessness!"
Falland left the poop.
The damage was not sufficiently serious to delay the ship, and, having chopped herself free, she proceeded on her journey, her Commander taking upon himself the duties of the deposed Navigator.
It was unfortunate that, in calculating the course to be steered, he applied 3° deviation the wrong way. It was equally unfortunate that he miscalculated the set of the current, since it was these two things which, at 11.53 a.m. precisely, caused the gunboat to come into violent contact with a ledge of rocks with barely six feet of water over them at high water.
"Good heavens! What's that?" shouted the skipper, as there came a series of muffled, grinding crashes under water and the ship stopped dead.
"We've hit something, sir," said Pardoe, who was on the poop. They had, and for some hours remained stuck fast. In fact, the Puffin's bones would have been there to this day if she had not been steaming at her leisurely, economical speed of 7 1/2 knots, and it was only by sheer good luck, and with the assistance of salvage tugs and appliances from Hong-Kong, that she was ever got off at all. As it was she was merely badly damaged, and came back into harbour in tow of one tug, while a couple of others, with their pumps working at full speed and gushing forth streams of water, were lashed alongside her.
Falland was not court-martialled, but a week later Commander Potvin, after an interview with the Admiral and certain medical officers, found that the climate of Hong-Kong was too rigorous for his constitution, and embarked on board a P. and O. steamer for passage home to England en route for Yarmouth.
The gunboat's officers watched her until she was out of sight, and then repaired to the wardroom and indulged in cocktails.
"I'm sorry for him," said No. One, lifting his glass with a grin.