"Now, Casey," he called, after he had looked at a track chart. "Got your fake message ready?"
"Only this," answered Casey, scanning a piece of paper. "Listen:
"Stolen destroyer bound north. Latitude so and so, longitude so and so."
"That'll do, or anything like it. Send it from latitude forty north, fifty-five west. That's up close to the corner of the Lanes, and if it's caught up it'll keep 'em busy up there for a while."
"What's our longitude?"
"Don't know, and won't until I learn the method. But just north of us is the west-to-east track of outbound low-power steamers, which, I take it, means tramps and tankers. Well, we'll have good use for a tanker."
"You mean we're to hold up one for oil?"
"Of course, and for grub if we need it."
"Piracy, Forsythe."
"Have pirates got anything on us, now?" asked Forsythe. "What are we? Mutineers, convicts, strong-arm men, thieves—or just simply pirates. Off the deck with you, Casey, and keep your wires hot. Forty north, forty-five west for a while, then we'll have it farther north."