She was only just in time, for the old salt's surmise was correct. Officers and men were to be sent to the Devonport Naval Barracks to await a court of enquiry.
"Hulloa, Doris!"
It was Eric's voice. She hardly recognised in the speaker her brother. A week's growth upon his chin, his alert figure grotesquely hidden in a dungaree boiler-suit, a tarry canvas cap set jauntily on his head, and his arm in a sling.
The A.P. leant over the coaming of the picquet-boat and grasped his sister's outstretched hand.
"Bit of a surprise, eh?" he remarked. "How on earth did you get wind of it? And so jolly near home, too. If ever I felt like breaking ship it's now. Never mind, old girl! This will mean a week's leave very soon."
"And Ronald?" she asked.
"They took him ashore not two minutes ago," replied the A.P. "Cot case, you know——"
"Not seriously wounded?"
"No. Effects of exhaustion. We all had a pretty rough time, and old Tressidar was a brick... we're off. Push off, boy!"
The picquet-boat began to back away from the ladder, two of her crew using their boat-hooks to fend off the crowd of shore-craft.