"Mostyn, dear old thing, you don't deserve pity," said Preston. "Just feel in the inside pocket of my coat. Luckily I haven't been in the ditch."
Peter did as requested, and drew out a cardboard box containing nearly a hundred Virginias.
"Lifted 'em from the Chief Steward's cabin," explained the Acting Chief. "They would have gone to Davy Jones if I hadn't. Take charge of them, old man. They'll last the pair of us for a fortnight, and by that time——"
"How about the lascars?" asked Pater.
"Mohammedans," rejoined Preston briefly. "They aren't allowed to smoke. At least," he added, "I don't think they do. Of course, they'll come in if they want any. We'll see. Light up for me, old fellow."
"We collared a box of matches from you," said Peter. "These are all we have on board. They are yours, of course, but——"
"Do they strike?" asked the Acting Chief. "I've had them for at least a twelvemonth. Sort of emergency issue, don't you know. Try my pockets, old son. I've a lighter somewhere, I'll stake my affidavit on that—— Gently, old man!"
"Sorry," exclaimed the Wireless Officer. "By Jove, Preston, you are a marvel."
"Rot!" ejaculated the other in self-depreciation. "Merely a case of looking after one's own interests."
Placing the end of a cigarette between Preston's lips Peter lit it. The Acting Chief grunted contentedly.