“Was it all right?” said he, over the bulwarks.
“Vaccination ain’t in it. She’s took beautiful. But where’s 267, Sir?” Pyecroft replied.
“Gone. We came here as the fog lifted. I gave the Devolution four. Was that you behind us?”
“Yes, sir; but I only got in three on the Devolution. I gave the Cryptic nine, though. They’re what you might call more or less vaccinated.”
He lifted me inboard, where Moorshed and six pirates lay round the Agatha’s hatch. There was a hint of daylight in the cool air.
“Where is the old man?” I asked.
“Still selling ’em fish, I suppose. He’s a darling! But I wish I could get this filthy paint off my hands. Hallo! What the deuce is the Cryptic signalling?”
A pale masthead light winked through the last of the fog. It was answered by a white pencil to the southward.
“Destroyer signalling with searchlight.” Pyecroft leaped on the stern-rail. “The first part is private signals. Ah! now she’s Morsing against the fog. ‘P-O-S-T—yes, ‘postpone’—‘D-E-P- (go on)! departure—till—further—orders—which—will—be com (he’s dropped the other m) unicated—verbally. End,’. He swung round. “Cryptic is now answering: ‘Ready—proceed—immediately. What—news—promised—destroyer—flotilla?’”
“Hallo!” said Moorshed. “Well, never mind, They’ll come too late.”