“Carter—et—Jones.”
“Oh, Lord!”
There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, “It’s Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!”
Another voice echoed, “Podgie!” and from its note I gathered that Mr. Carteret-Jones had a reputation, but not for independent command.
“Who’s your sub?” said the first speaker, a shadow on the bridge of the Dirk.
“A gunner, at present, Sir. The Stiletto—broken down—turns over to us.”
“When did the Stiletto break down?”
“Off the Start, Sir; two hours after—after she left here this evening, I believe. My orders are to report to you for the manœuvre signal-codes, and join Commander Hignett’s flotilla, which is in attendance on Stiletto.”
A smothered chuckle greeted this last. Moorshed’s voice was high and uneasy. Said Pyecroft, with a sigh: “The amount o’ trouble me an’ my bright spurs ’ad fishin’ out that information from torpedo coxswains and similar blighters in pubs all this afternoon, you would never believe.”
“But has the Stiletto broken down?” I asked weakly.