It did not take the signalling officer long to uncleat the masthead halyards. These he bent to the handle of the jug, at the same time inserting a piece of brass wire through the rope so that it would render through the sheaves in the masthead truck, but refuse to return when once a strain was put upon it.
Up into the darkness rose the fragile trophy. More than once it struck dully against the top-mast, fortunately without breaking. Lost to view, it announced its arrival at the top-mast head in no unmistakable manner. A sharp jerk, and the metal pin was released. The jug was almost literally nailed to the mast; until a hand was sent aloft—and it was hardly likely that any of the ancient mariners composing the guard-ship's crew could essay the feat—there it must perforce remain.
The work of re-embarkation was performed with more haste than discretion, the Adjutant stepping confidently into fifteen feet of water instead of into the boat. With praiseworthy devotion to the great cause, he refrained from audible comment in spite of the fact that Wells grabbed him by the hair. Unfortunately Dennis had adopted the latest fashion of allowing his hair to grow fairly long and to brush it back from his forehead. It made an excellent hand-grip for the signalling officer's massive and horny paw, but nevertheless the operation was a painful one.
At the risk of capsizing the dinghy, the Adjutant was hauled in, and the return trip was accomplished without further incident.
Exultant but shivering, the four officers made their way back to their quarters, and turned in to sleep the sleep of men who had achieved their ends.
Directly Derek awoke he sprang out of his folding bed and hastened to the window. In the pale-grey dawn he could see the outlines of the guard-ship silhouetted against the light. Aloft the trophy hung in uninterrupted serenity.
"Tug's alongside the guard-ship," announced the Adjutant at breakfast. "Let's go down to the pier and give her a good send-off."
Practically every R.A.F. officer on the station hurried out of the building and crowded on the pier-head. Crowds of men lined the shore, while dozens of civilian spectators appeared to watch the departure of one of the links of the Great War—the humble coaster that for the last four years had, under the authority of the White Ensign, prevented all unauthorized craft from leaving or entering Fisherton Harbour.
The Royal Air Force had made up its mind to give its departing confrère a fitting farewell. From the signal yard-arm on the pier fluttered a triple hoist of flags: "Good-bye; good luck". Klaxon horns, sirens, and the long-neglected trumpet blared forth in noisy lament; petrol-tins, on which to beat a rousing tattoo, were pressed into service; while the steam-tug, straining at the hawser, responded with a succession of strident whoops.
Slowly the guard-ship swung round and shaped a course for Fisherton, following obediently in the wake of the tug. On her bridge stood the burly figure of genial Lieutenant Dixon as he waved an acknowledgment of the exuberant welcome. Fifty feet above his head dangled the earthenware jug.