“How else are we to get Red Fleet’s private signal-code? Any way, if she ’asn’t now, she will before manœuvres are ended. It’s only executin’ in anticipation.”
“Go astern and send your coxswain aboard for orders, Mr. Jones.” Water carries sound well, but I do not know whether we were intended to hear the next sentence: “They must have given him one intelligent keeper.”
“That’s me,” said Mr. Pyecroft, as a black and coal-stained dinghy—I did not foresee how well I should come to know her—was flung overside by three men.
“Havin’ bought an ’am, we will now see life.” He stepped into the boat and was away.
“I say, Podgie!”—the speaker was in the last of the line of destroyers, as we thumped astern—“aren’t you lonely out there?”
“Oh, don’t rag me!” said Moorshed. “Do you suppose I’ll have to manœuvre with your flo-tilla?”
“No, Podgie! I’m pretty sure our commander will see you sifting cinders in Tophet before you come with our flo-tilla.”
“Thank you! She steers rather wild at high speeds.”
Two men laughed together.
“By the way, who is Mr. Carteret-Jones when he’s at home?” I whispered.