“What boat’s thatt?” The hail was repeated.
“What do yee say-ay?” Pyecroft bellowed, and, under his breath to me: “Give us a hand.”
“It’s called the Marietta—F. J. Stokes—Torquay,” I began, quaveringly. “At least, that’s the name on the name-board. I’ve been dining—on a yacht.”
“I see.” The voice shook a little, and my way opened before me with disgraceful ease.
“Yesh. Dining private yacht. Eshmesheralda. I belong to Torquay Yacht Club. Are you member Torquay Yacht Club?”
“You’d better go to bed, Sir. Good-night.” We slid into the rapidly thinning fog.
“Dig out, Alf. Put your nix mangiare back into it. The fog’s peelin’ off like a petticoat. Where’s Two Six Seven?”
“I can’t see her,” I replied, “but there’s a light low down ahead.”
“The Agatha!” They rowed desperately through the uneasy dispersal of the fog for ten minutes and ducked round the trawler’s bow.
“Well, Emanuel means ‘God with us’—so far.” Pyecroft wiped his brow, laid a hand on the low rail, and as he boosted me up to the trawler, I saw Moorshed’s face, white as pearl in the thinning dark.