"We'll be back just in time to miss the after-dinner parade, sir," remarked the coxswain, as the leading boat swept round the south-westerly extremity of Sableridge and the pier opened out at less than two hundred yards distance. "It's close on three bells."
"There's not a man on the parade-ground," rejoined Derek, "but there's a crowd on the pier-head, and all the boats are on their moorings 'cept the duty-boat. Looks jolly funny."
But the mystery of suspended activity on the part of the Marine Depot was soon elucidated, for a stentorian voice called Derek as his boat ran alongside the pier.
"Cheerio, old bird! Can you fancy yourself out of a job?"
Derek had been doing so for the last hour.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
A dozen voices answered the question.
"ARMISTICE!"