The gauge had reached the eighty-foot mark, and the boat under the influence of her headway was still driving the needle slowly round. At ninety feet the Captain looked at the Pilot, smiled, and started the motors again. Hardly had he given the order when the needle checked, rose a little, and then crept back to ninety-five. "Stop the motors! I've lost a chance there, Pilot—'Wish I'd had a bet on that."
He stood watching the gauge a moment longer, and then turned to walk to the Wardroom.
"Pipe down—usual sentries only," he ordered. "Tell my servant to get me some washing water."
He threw the curtain aside, and joined the two officers who stood looking solemnly at the mallard, which lay on a gory newspaper in the centre of the table. For a moment there was silence.
"Well," said the Captain cheerfully, "it's not as smashed as it might be. It'll do for a pie to-morrow."
"'Mm," said the First-Lieutenant, "'Keeper at home used to call rabbits that looked like that 'ferrets' food.'"
"Not a bit of it," rejoined the Captain; "if we mash him in a pie he'll be all right."
There was another pause while the First-Lieutenant tucked an extra fold of newspaper beneath the corpse—then, after a quick glance and nudge for the Pilot's benefit, he spoke in a detached and dispassionate voice.
"Of course, it was poaching."
The Captain's brown face began to slowly take on the colour of the gore on the table—then he exploded—