"You mean submarines?" asked the lad. "I should like to see one. It must be fine sport."
"Not on board this hooker, though," added the sub. "Give me something that can hit back."
Force of habit made the young officer glance to windward. He would not have been altogether surprised had a pair of twin periscopes appeared above the surface of the moonlit water. After all, he reflected, there wasn't much chance of that. The fishing-ground was well out of the recognized steamer tracks. A U boat, especially in the English Channel, where she ran an almost momentary risk of destruction, would not waste time over the shallow Dolphin Bank to look for insignificant fishing-smacks. Still, Hun submarines did erratic things sometimes.
Then the sub laughed at his fancies. The possibility was so remote that he ridiculed the suggestion.
Meanwhile Old Garge had disappeared under the half-deck. A wreath of smoke from the dilapidated iron chimney, and the banging of several iron utensils, announced the fact that he was preparing some sort of repast. Tim, mechanically sawing the tiller to and fro, kept the smack on her course.
The Fidelity was now well to the east'ard of the rest of the fleet. A couple of miles separated her from the nearmost of the brown-sailed boats, whose dark canvas showed up distinctly in the slanting rays of the moon.
"We're giving them the slip, aren't we?" enquired Leslie, indicating the still busily engaged smacks.
Tim glanced over his shoulder.
"Granfer," he called out; "we'm a long way down t' east'ard. Shall us up nets?"
"No; you just carry on," replied Old Garge, his voice muffled in the confined space. "I'll be with you in a minute. I'm fair busy just now."