"And you, my festive?" inquired Morpeth, addressing Meredith.
"I'm following my senior officer's lead," replied the Sub promptly.
"As regards your men, I'll put them on board if she'll have 'em," continued Morpeth. "It'll relieve the pressure on the grub locker. Hope they won't kag too much about us, though."
"I don't think so," replied Wakefield, who had great faith in the sound sense of his crew.
"But after all it won't matter so very much," added the R.N.R. officer. "By the time they get ashore my little stunt will, I hope, be a back number. Now, let's see what this camouflaged blighter has to say."
The Q-boat had now ranged up within fifty or sixty feet of her small co-worker. Men, rigged out in the nondescript garments affected by the Mercantile Marine, were clustered for'ard, while a couple of stalwart individuals, rigged out in pilot-coats, serge trousers and sea-boots, were leaning over the side abreast the mainmast.
"Dash you, you meddling bounder!" roared one of the latter. "What d'ye mean by butting in and spoiling our sport? D'ye think we stood a gruelling for four mortal hours just for the fun of seeing you give Fritz socks? An' we had her nicely within range when you let rip."
"Sorry," replied Morpeth apologetically, "But how the blazes was I to know?"
"You'd have known quick enough if we had shown our teeth," replied the other grimly. "Three of my men killed and six wounded, and nothing to show for it."
"So I suppose when I fall in with a genuine tramp being chased by a Fritz, I'll just carry on?" inquired Morpeth caustically.