"Wakefield's not coming along, I suppose?" asked Cumberleigh.
"No; he's on Inner Patrol," replied Kenneth. "I'm short-handed, too; had to land my Sub yesterday. Got mumps or some other cheerful thing—no, don't look alarmed. It was my mistake. Toothache. I knew it was something with a swollen face about it. In a way it's a blessing in disguise. There's a bunk waiting for you."
Almost without incident, the run to Aberdeen was accomplished in record time. The motors ran without a hitch, and carrying a favourable tide most of the way M.L. 1497 averaged 19 knots "over the ground."
"Enough for to-day," remarked Meredith as the M.L. was safely berthed, and he was changing into shore-kit in the ward-room. "I'll give general leave till eleven to-night. One man will have to remain on board. Now, then, Cumberleigh, my dear old thing——"
"Gentleman to see you, sir," called out one of the men.
"Who the——" began Meredith wonderingly. He had no acquaintances in Aberdeen as far as he knew. But the next instant he gave an exclamation of pleasurable surprise as a well-known voice exclaimed:
"Eh, laddie, I thought 'twas you I saw coming in past the North Pier."
"Jock McIntosh, by the powers!" ejaculated Meredith. "Come on down. By Jove! This is great—absolutely."
It was Jock, but not the Jock of yore. McIntosh was rigged out in civilian clothes of distinctly post-war quality. He had lost the alertness that he had acquired, despite his heavy build, during his service afloat. He descended the steep ladder awkwardly, his heavy boots clattering and slipping on the brass treads of the steps.
"Eh, lad," he remarked, "but you were about right. I'm downright sorry I'm out of it. Life ashore is a bit dour, and when I saw you bringing the old packet into harbour I'd have given my last shilling to have been in sea-rig again."