At this point I reclined without shame on Mr. Pyecroft’s bosom, supported by his quivering arm.
“Well?” said Moorshed, scowling into the darkness, as 267’s bows snapped at the shore seas of the broader Channel, and we swayed together.
“‘You’d better go on,’ says Commander Fassett, ‘an’ do what you’re told to do. I don’t envy Hignett if he has to dry-nurse the Gnome’s commander. But what d’you want with signals?’ ’e says. ‘It’s criminal lunacy to trust Mr. Jones with anything that steams.’
“‘May I make an observation, Sir?’ I says. ‘Suppose,’ I says, ‘you was torpedo-gunner on the Gnome, an’ Mr. Carteret-Jones was your commandin’ officer, an’ you had your reputation as a second in command for the first time,’ I says, well knowin’ it was his first command of a flotilla, ‘what ’ud you do, Sir?’ That gouged ’is unprotected ends open—clear back to the citadel.”
“What did he say?” Moorshed jerked over his shoulder.
“If you were Mr. Carteret-Jones, it might be disrespect for me to repeat it, Sir.”
“Go ahead,” I heard the boy chuckle.
“‘Do?’ ’e says. ‘I’d rub the young blighter’s nose into it till I made a perishin’ man of him, or a perspirin’ pillow-case,’ ’e says, ‘which,’ he adds, ‘is forty per cent, more than he is at present.’
“Whilst he’s gettin’ the private signals—they’re rather particular ones—I went forrard to see the Dirk’s gunner about borrowin’ a holdin’-down bolt for our twelve-pounder. My open ears, while I was rovin’ over his packet, got the followin’ authentic particulars.” I heard his voice change, and his feet shifted. “There’s been a last council o’ war of destroyer-captains at the flagship, an’ a lot of things ’as come out. To begin with Cryptic and Devolution, Captain Panke and Captain Malan—”
“Cryptic and Devolution, first-class cruisers,” said Mr. Moorshed dreamily. “Go on, Pyecroft.”