"That's one of my hardest jobs," commented the Old Man. "Trying to make an A.B. forget what has been drilled into him from the first day he joined at Shotley. And look here, Weeds, you're not a credit to the ship. Your rig-out is just a trifle too smart and too new. Try toning it down with a little tar."
Captain Meredith hurried off to interview the Board of Trade Inspector, leaving Cavendish to his own resources on the deck of the S.S. Complex.
Only the previous day the Complex had come out of Portsmouth Harbour as the Cynesepion. She had been hurriedly docked, her bottom cleaned and coated in less than six hours. Her armament, consisting of one 4.7, four 12-pounders, and a couple of 3-pounder high-angle guns, had in the dead of night been placed in their elaborately concealed mountings. Her holds and double-bottoms were packed tightly with cork; ammunition, stores, and oil fuel were placed on board, and with a naval crew, she was taken out of Portsmouth to the Motherbank, off Ryde.
Here the uniformed crew were taken off by a Government tug—leaving only twenty "hands" under a couple of officers to take the ship round to Southampton.
Almost their first act was to paint out the name Cynesephon and substitute that of Complex.
Cavendish went below. In the alley-way he encountered Robin Seton, whom, until that moment, Cavendish had imagined to be undergoing a course at "Whaley"—a "two and a half striper", now posing as the first officer of the tramp.
"Cheerio, George!" was Seton's greetings. "Now our little band of merry wreckers is complete. Seen Carr and Warrender? They're sculling around somewhere. My word!"
He stepped back and critically looked Cavendish up and down.
"My word!" he continued. "I've never seen such a smart-looking Third Mate before."
"So the Old Man remarked—or words to that effect," rejoined Cavendish, with a laugh. "No matter. Live and learn. Where did you pick up your rig-out?"