"Tough Geordie's" face wrinkled more than usual, as he playfully prodded Wakefield in the ribs with the fingers of his remaining hand.
"You're a sly dog, Wakefield," he chuckled; "but you can't get to wind'ard of Geordie Morpeth. Happened to meet one of my ship's company at Waterloo this morning, and he told me something that's been puzzling me for months past. You were the blighter who slapped that torpedo into the Hun torpedo boat; and that's what got me this."
And he touched the bit of ribbon on his coat.
"Tut, tut!" expostulated Wakefield. "No; I can't deny it since you've taxed me with it. But let the thing drop, Morpeth. If you don't, I'm hanged if I'll take you for a joy-ride in my M.L. as long as I'm at Scapa Flow. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you dear old thing!"
CHAPTER XXX
A NIGHT OF COINCIDENCES
It was late on the following day when Meredith and his companions, together with close on six hundred naval ratings and a corresponding quantity of kit and baggage, found themselves dumped down upon the platform at Thurso. The long Highland night had fallen, bringing with it wind and rain in plenty, and altogether things looked too desolate for words. It was bitterly cold, too, and occasionally drifting flakes of snow eddied in the howling wind.
"Cheerful sort of show, this!" exclaimed Wakefield, as he buttoned the storm-flap of his waterproof coat. "Can't say I like the idea of this part as a cruising-ground. Auldhaig was bad enough at times, but this!"
"Wonder our fellows could stick it, summer and winter, for over four, years," remarked Meredith. "Hark at the roar of the surf! And Thurso's in a bay, isn't it?"