‘Just look at those sausages,’ said Seagrave sitting down. ‘They look as if they’d spent their palmier days on a cab rank.’
‘You’ve been spoilt,’ replied the skipper. ‘You’ve been brought up on Service bangers, and now you think that our best Vienna sausages, provided by me at great personal expense, are beneath you.’
‘I’d have been glad enough to see any sort of sausages when I was apprentice in a wind-jammer,’ put in Boyd. ‘Cracker hash was what we got. However, I don’t blame you. If I felt like you look, I don’t think I could eat a fried egg.’
‘A most appalling example of a youthful officer on his way to the bow-wows,’ put in Raymond. ‘Eighteen feet.’
The meal over, Seagrave went aft to look at his beloved motors and engines, while the captain and navigator consulted the chart.
‘Near enough to the land, I think,’ said Raymond; ‘we don’t know exactly where their minefields are. We’ll steer an opposite course till noon.’
‘Very good, sir. Steer 236 deg., helmsman.’
‘236 deg., sir,’ came the reply as the wheel went over, and a little later,—
‘Course, sir?’
‘All “Sir Garnet” in the engine-room,’ announced Seagrave, returning from his tour of inspection. ‘The batteries are still up to twelve twenty-five.’