"Ask me another, old sport," he replied. "If you want to carry on do so at once, before the Old Man puts another stopper on you. Bon voyage!"
The motors were started up; foot by foot the chain cables were brought on board until the anchors, their palms smothered in blue, slimy clay, were hauled up and secured. Then, in the gathering twilight, the boats headed for their destination. By this time the mist had increased considerably. Visibility was a matter of a couple of hundred yards. It was bitterly cold, the air being raw and damp. "Verily," thought Derek, "motor-boating in November differs considerably from yachting in August."
At length the huge air-sheds of the Wagshot Station loomed up through the mist. Ordering half-speed, Derek brought his boat alongside the pier, and signalled to the second craft to lie up alongside him.
"Where are you from?" enquired a great-coated individual from the pier-head—the Officer of the Watch.
"From. Sableridge," replied Derek. "We've come to take away a sea-plane."
"First I've heard about it," rejoined the O.W. "You'd better see the Adjutant. You're stopping here the night?"
"'Fraid there's no option," replied Daventry.
"Right-o! Moor your craft out there. I'll send a duty-boat out to take off the crews."
"Out there" was a partially-protected anchorage, about a hundred yards from the pier. The boats pushed off and made for their appointed stations for the night, Derek taking particular care that each boat was properly moored with both anchor and kedge.
This done the crews were taken off. Visions of a hot meal first for his men and then for himself (for it is an unwritten law that officers must first provide for the comfort of their crews before "packing up" themselves) were rudely shattered when the Officer of the Watch appeared.