“And a half-four!”
“By the mark—five!”
The Puncher was across the bar, gliding through muddy water on an even keel and giving the lie direct to him whose fee was ten pounds English. The pilot drew a talisman of some kind from underneath the least torn portion of his shirt, and to the commander's amazement kissed it. It is not often that a woolly headed, or any other, native of the East kisses either folk or things. But the commander was too busy at the moment to ask questions.
“Have your starboard anchor ready!” he commanded, making mental notes.
“Ready, sir!”
The glittering, wet, wind-blown beach and the little estuary slid by like a painted panorama smelling of all the evil in the world as the Puncher eased her helm a time or two seeking a comfortable berth with Joe Byng's chanted aid.
“Let go twenty fathoms!”
The pilot sighed relief as the starboard anchor splashed into the water and the cable roared after it through the hawse pipe.
“What nationality are you?” asked the commander, watching the Puncher swing and gaging distances, but sparing one eye now for his unwelcome but official guest.
“Me, sah?”