"No, bowled over a fox. Shot the brute dead as a door-nail."
"You rotten sport!" exclaimed several of his listeners.
"Try your luck again," said the lieutenant. "Have you a gun? If not, I'll lend you one—it's a good one, I can assure you."
So it was arranged that half a dozen officers, including Aubyn, should go over to Tuilabrail on the following morning and have lunch with the hospitable Mr. McNab.
"Who is this Mr. McNab?" asked Terence.
No one seemed to know exactly. He had only recently rented Tuilabrail. Some one said that he had heard that McNab was a wealthy manufacturer from the Lowlands, who had been obliged to retire early on account of bad health, but amongst the officers there was a general opinion that he was a real good old sport.
The sub.'s first night on board a destroyer soon enabled him to realize that there is a great difference between cruising in an armed merchantman and serving with a flotilla.
He was officer of the Middle Watch. The "Livingstone" and her consorts, although supposed to be stationed at Rosyth during the fortnight, were anchored far up the Firth of Forth, ready at a moment's notice to steam out into the North Sea should there be a "wireless" announcing that the German fleet was at last about to risk The Day.
From where the "Livingstone" lay, save for the anchor lamps of the flotilla, not a light was visible. Culross and Kincardine on the north shore and Grangemouth and Boness on the south shore of the Forth might have been non-existent as far as sound and visibility were concerned.
It was a raw, misty night, with a keen easterly wind blowing in from the North Sea. With the wind against the strong ebb tide the sea was flecked with "white horses" that slapped viciously against the stern of the destroyer. Overhead the insulated stays of the wireless aerial moaned fitfully in the blast.