"Anderson, my lad, delighted! Squeeze in. We'll find a tot of something. I've a flask in my bag. Wakefield, an old chum of mine. And this is a young chum—Meredith by name."
"Let me see," remarked the commander. "Weren't you in a Q-boat? Yes, I thought so. Had many exciting stunts?"
"A few," replied Morpeth modestly. "One of the rummiest was when Wakefield tried to knock paint off my old hooker with his six-pounders, and I sank his little M.L."
"Accidents will happen," quoted Commander Anderson. "I nearly sank one of our own submarines once.... But your missing arm.... and the D.S.O. ribbon—what about that?"
"A little scrap," explained Morpeth. "I don't know why they gave me the D.S.O., although they said I torpedoed a Hun destroyer. For details ask Wakefield; he's our torpedo expert."
Wakefield flushed hotly.
"I don't know what you mean," he expostulated.
The conversation flowed into other channels, continuing briskly until someone suggested turning in.
Anderson said good-night, and resumed his interrupted search for somewhere to lay his head. Morpeth was about to follow Meredith to the berth the latter had secured for him, when Wakefield called the R.N.R. man back.
"Say," he remarked, lapsing into one of his Canadian-acquired expressions, "what did you mean when you told the merchant I was a torpedo expert?"