“I wouldn’t ’ave took it up,” was the answer. “Perishin’ ’Eavens above! Look at the Devolution’s semaphore!” Two black wooden arms waved from the junior ship’s upper bridge. “They’ve seen it.”
“The mote on their neighbour’s beam, of course,” said Pyecroft, and read syllable by syllable: “‘Captain Malan to Captain Panke. Is—sten—cilled frieze your starboard side new Admiralty regulation, or your Number One’s private expense?’ Now Cryptic is saying, ‘Not understood.’ Poor old Crippy, the Devolute’s raggin’ ’er sore. ‘Who is G.M.?’ she says. That’s fetched the Cryptic. She’s answerin’: ‘You ought to know. Examine own paintwork.’ Oh, Lord! they’re both on to it now. This is balm. This is beginning to be balm. I forgive you, Morgan!”
Two frantic pipes twittered. From either cruiser a whaler dropped into the water and madly rowed round the ship: as a gay-coloured hoist rose to the Cryptic’s yardarm: “Destroyer will close at once. Wish to speak by semaphore.” Then on the bridge semaphore itself: “Have been trying to attract your attention last half hour. Send commanding officer aboard at once.”
“Our attention? After all the attention we’ve given ’er, too,” said Pyecroft. “What a greedy old woman!” To Moorshed: “Signal from the Cryptic, Sir.”
“Never mind that!” said the boy, peering through his glasses. “Our dinghy quick, or they’ll paint our marks out. Come along!”
By this time I was long past even hysteria. I remember Pyecroft’s bending back, the surge of the driven dinghy, a knot of amazed faces as we skimmed the Cryptic’s ram, and the dropped jaw of the midshipman in her whaler when we barged fairly into him.
“Mind my paint!” he yelled.
“You mind mine, snotty,” said Moorshed. “I was all night putting these little ear-marks on you for the umpires to sit on. Leave ’em alone.”
We splashed past him to the Devolution’s boat, where sat no one less than her first lieutenant, a singularly unhandy-looking officer.
“What the deuce is the meaning of this?” he roared, with an accusing forefinger.