“The leaf-signal is made, sir,” said the Quartermaster at the door.
“Twelve-twenty-four train,” Duckett muttered. “Can do.” He rose, adding, “I’m going to scratch the backs of swine for the next three days. G’wout!”
The well-trained servant was already fleeting along the edge of the basin with his valise. Stephanotis and Phlox returned to their own ships, loudly expressing envy and hatred. Duckett paused for a moment at his gang-way rail to beckon to his torpedo-coxswain, a Mr. Wilkins, a peacetime sailor of mild and mildewed aspect who had followed Duckett’s shady fortunes for some years.
“Wilkins,” he whispered, “where did we get that new starboard fender of ours from?”
“Orf the dredger, sir. She was asleep when we came in,” said Wilkins through lips that scarcely seemed to move. “But our port one come orf the water-boat. We ’ad to over’aul our moorin’s in the skiff last night, sir, and we—er—found it on ’er.”
“Well, well, Wilkins. Keep the home fires burning,” and Lieutenant-in-Command H. R. Duckett sped after his servant in the direction of the railway station. But not so fast that he could outrun a melody played aboard the Phlox on a concertina to which manly voices bore the burden:
When the enterprisin’ burglar ain’t aburglin’—ain’t aburglin’,
When the cut-throat is not occupied with crime—’pied with crime.
He loves to hear the little brook agurglin’——
Moved, Heaven knows, whether by conscience or kindliness, Lieutenant Duckett smiled at the policeman on the Dockyard gates.