At length Meredith's chance came. He had to admit that it was influence that did the trick. A certain retired Admiral whose name Kenneth had never heard, but who knew Mr. Meredith years ago, worked the oracle, and the lad found himself a full-fledged sub-lieutenant of the R.N.V.R. The only fly in the ointment was the fact that Meredith had been appointed to a northern M.L. flotilla, where, in strange and remote waters, there appeared to be little chance of seeing the "actual thing." He had hoped to be appointed to the Dover Patrol, where his intimate knowledge of the Channel would be a decided asset and where the prospects of smelling powder would be almost certain to materialise.
M.L. 1071, one of the fifteen motor launches belonging to the Auldhaig Patrol, was lying next but one alongside the parent ship Hesperus, an obsolete second-class cruiser. It was early in May. Already the northern evenings were drawing out and the nights becoming shorter and shorter. In the land-locked firth the lofty serrated hills were capped with fleecy mists that threatened with the going down of the sun to steal lower and lower and envelop the placid water in a pall of baffling fog.
"The main object of my visit this evening," remarked McIntosh ponderously—he was rather prone to verbosity—"is to enlist your assistance in the matter of this mashie."
"I thought it was a patent lead-swinging device," interposed Meredith drily—"a sort of means of getting me on the sick-list with a pulverised instep."
"Not at all, laddie," continued Jock, unruffled by the interruption. "D'ye ken, I'm no hand at splicing, and I'm not giving myself away by asking any of my merry wreckers to take on the job. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to do it to-morrow."
"When do you want this instrument of torture?" asked Meredith, as he examined the fractured ends.
"By three on Wednesday afternoon," replied McIntosh.
Kenneth shook his head.
"Can't be done, old son—that is, if you want me to tackle it to-morrow."
"Why not?"