"H'm, hum!"
"By Me, Robert Foulis, Seaman, Tenth Earl of Clanronald, G.C.B., Admiral of the Red, Rear-Admiral of the British Fleet, and Marquis of Araman, etc., etc. Invented & Conceived Not in Hatred of Mankind, but in Defence of my Country and the Rights Beloved by Every True Briton——"
"Marvellous old cock! And in 1854, when he was eighty if a day, he offers it for the fifth time to the British Government!"
"Busy, Owner? See you've got inside the prize-packet! My Christmas! what is it? Miss Araminta's Diary; 'FOUND AFTER FORTY YEARS!' or 'HOW I BROKE MY ENGAGEMENT WITH THE CURATE!'"
This from a young, exceedingly wet, and dirty Engineer Lieutenant, fresh from an interview with the damaged diving-plane, and smelling potently of castor-oil.
The Commander looked up, and strange things were in his eyes.
"You're pretty wide!" He added, speaking partly to the other man inside the Commander: "Jolly good thing we're on the Home trip. That main motor gives a lot o' trouble, and—suppose some purblind sailing ship crashed into us—and sent us to the bottom with THIS aboard. Great Sea Boots! It makes me crawl all down my back to think of it!"
The Second clattered down the steel ladder and filled the doorway with his burly personality.
"What makes you crawl? Don't say the leg o' mutton we bought Saturday from the skipper of that Grimsby trawler has gone back on us! Is that what the liar means by fresh meat?"
"If I told you, you'd crawl too. Or you'd think it a case of sunstroke—or D.T. of the deferred kind." The Commander stowed the papers back in the sharkskin case with gingerly carefulness that provoked the query whether he thought he had got hold of a new kind of floating mine, and elicited the retort: