"Mouldy blighter," exclaimed the lieutenant. Then Peter knew.
"Weeds, old son," he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"But I did," replied Cavendish; "heard you were appointed. Saw you coming up over the side, in point of fact, only I couldn't hail you. My watch—still on it," he added hurriedly. "See you later, old thing."
Cavendish, with several of the other survivors of the Complex, had been "turned over" to the flagship on her arrival at Bermuda a week previously, so that her normal complement was now exceeded. It was the same with the rest of the fleet. Trained officers and men were plentiful. The deficiency lay in the number of ships available.
After "seven-bell" tea the chums met again.
"So you're the new gadget expert, I hear," said Cavendish. "Something that's going to make the Rioguayans feel the breeze, eh? What sort of 'ujah' is it?"
Peter explained.
"That sounds all right," remarked the sceptical Cavendish. "It's been tested and all that; but will it stand concussion when we're in action?"
"It will stand up to it as well as any searchlight," declared Peter. "While we were testing the gadget an enemy submarine was depth-charged about three hundred yards off. That was some concussion! and I examined the apparatus afterwards. It was O.K."
"Nothing like our principal armament firing salvoes," said Cavendish. "My action station is 13 turret. Where's yours?"