Deftly Hamerton toggled the flags, signifying "Important; I wish to communicate", to the halyards, and hoisted them to the peak.
The German battleship was now less than four hundred yards to leeward and moving slowly through the water. At any moment she might be swallowed up in the fog, which showed signs of increasing in density.
"There's the reply," exclaimed Detroit, as two flags fluttered from the after-mast of the battleship.
"'I F,'" announced the Sub, placing his binoculars on the seat and seizing the codebook. "The rotters! They decline to hold any communication. There, she's off! Steady on the helm, old man! It's time I saw to those rashers."
Once more Hamerton entered the cabin. The rescued man was still lying on the floor, staring vacantly at the skylight.
"Are you better?" asked the Sub in as good German as he could muster. His command of foreign languages, like that of the majority of British officers, was poor. His German in particular was execrable.
"Ja," answered the man, without removing his gaze from the skylight. The reply was purely mechanical, for Hamerton could see that the fellow was not in full possession of his faculties.
"He'll recover all in good time," soliloquized Hamerton as he made his way to the fo'c'sle. "A glass of brandy and water will do wonders. Hallo! What's this?"
For the young officer had made the disconcerting discovery that in the "wash" of the destroyers the frying-pan had jumped off the stove, and four rashers lay stuck to the fo'c'sle floor in their own fat, whilst rivulets of dried grease had traced fancy patterns on the sides of the lockers and over a bundle of spare sails. To complete the disorder, a can of paraffin and a tin full of soda had come into violent contact, with the result that the contents of both gave additional flavour to the stranded rashers. But for this, Hamerton might have replaced the bacon in the frying-pan, reflecting that much of the pleasure of yachting consists in tolerating discomforts. He drew the line at rashers à la soda and paraffin.
"You'll have to whistle for hot grub, Detroit," he called out. "There's a most unholy mess for'ard. Hot coca and biscuits are the best I can do."