“Midships. Etheldreda won’t carry more weight forward. She’s wet enough as it is.”
“Why don’t you apply for another craft?” Portson put in. “There’s a chap at Southampton just now, down with pneumonia and——”
“No, thank you. I know Etheldreda. She’s nothing to write home about, but when she feels well she can shift a bit.”
Maddingham leaned across the table. “If she does more than eleven in a flat calm,” said he, “I’ll—I’ll give you Hilarity.”
“’Wouldn’t be found dead in Hilarity,” was Winchmore’s grateful reply. “You don’t mean to say you’ve taken her into real wet water, Papa? Where did it happen?”
The other laughed. Maddingham’s red face turned brick colour, and the veins on the cheekbones showed blue through a blurr of short bristles.
“He’s been convoying neutrals—in a tactful manner,” Tegg chuckled.
Maddingham filled his glass and scowled at Tegg. “Yes,” he said, “and here’s special damnation to me Lords of the Admiralty. A more muddle-headed set of brass-bound apes——”
“My! My! My!” Winchmore chirruped soothingly. “It don’t seem to have done you any good, Papa. Who were you conveyancing?”
Maddingham snapped out a ship’s name and some details of her build.