“Yah! You’ve had time to splice it by now,” said Pyecroft with contempt.
“Aie; but we’m all crushed to port like aigs. You was runnin’ twenty-seven knots, us reckoned it. Didn’t us, Albert?”
“Liker twenty-nine, an’ niver no whistle.”
“Yes, we always do that. Do you want a tow to Brixham?” said Moorshed.
A great silence fell upon those wet men of the sea.
We lifted a little toward their side, but our silent, quick-breathing crew, braced and strained outboard, bore us off as though we had been a mere picket-boat.
“What for?” said a puzzled voice.
“For love; for nothing. You’ll be abed in Brixham by midnight.”
“Yiss; but trawl’s down.”
“No hurry. I’ll pass you a line and go ahead. Sing out when you’re ready.” A rope smacked on their deck with the word; they made it fast; we slid forward, and in ten seconds saw nothing save a few feet of the wire rope running into fog over our stern; but we heard the noise of debate.