We drifted down the Devolution’s side, as we had drifted down her sister’s; and we dealt with her in that dense gloom as we had dealt with her sister.
“Whai! ’Tis a man-o’-war, after all! I can see the captain’s whisker all gilt at the edges! We took ’ee for the Bournemouth steamer. Three cheers for the real man-o’-war!”
That cry came from under the Devolution’s stern. Pyecroft held something in his teeth, for I heard him mumble, “Our Mister Moorshed!”
Said a boy’s voice above us, just as we dodged a jet of hot water from some valve: “I don’t half like that cheer. If I’d been the old man I’d ha’ turned loose the quick-firers at the first go-off. Aren’t they rowing Navy-stroke, yonder?”
“True,” said Pyecroft, listening to retreating oars. “It’s time to go ’ome when snotties begin to think. The fog’s thinnin’, too.”
I felt a chill breath on my forehead, and saw a few feet of the steel stand out darker than the darkness, disappear—it was then the dinghy shot away from it—and emerge once more.
“Hallo! what boat’s that?” said the voice suspiciously.
“Why, I do believe it’s a real man-o’-war, after all,” said Pyecroft, and kicked Laughton.
“What’s that for?” Laughton was no dramatist.
“Answer in character, you blighter! Say somethin’ opposite.”