The officer addressed shook his head.
“Don’t know what to think. We know where these cut-throat gentry hang out when they are at home. Why doesn’t the admiral give orders for us to shell their base to blazes?”
“ ‘Cause China’s a recognized republic having a seat on the League of Nations, and consequently empowered to sit in judgment upon other countries that are infinitely better governed than she is. That’s the irony of it,” continued Maynebrace. “She’s taking no steps to repress piracy, and we can’t violate her territory even to exterminate the blighters who take to it. All we can do is to try and catch ’em napping outside territorial waters, and they’re as artful as a wagon-load of monkeys!”
It was Raxworthy’s first morning in a destroyer, and already he had come to the conclusion that it was a pleasant change from service in a light cruiser. There was less irksome and often unnecessary routine and no short-tempered commander to harry him at sundry times, simply because the Bloke had to jump on somebody—it was his idea of discipline—and midshipmen fall an easy prey.
In Buster there was no gun-room. The officers—eight all told—were a sociable, brotherly crowd in their off-duty moments in the wardroom, but terribly efficient when on watch. In spite of Maynebrace’s remark that Buster was one of the handmaidens of the fleet—a term applied to destroyers, armed drifters and other small craft—it was his aim and ambition to keep his command in such a state of high efficiency that even the most critical admiral could find no fault with her.
“I suppose I’d better let you have the customary twenty-four hours in which to sling your hammock, Raxworthy?” remarked the lieutenant-commander at the conclusion of the morning meal.
“I’d just as soon carry on, sir!”
“Very well, then; see how you like standing middle watch!”
The midshipman smiled. It was just the thing he wanted—to spend from midnight to four in the morning on the bridge of a destroyer at sea.
Just then a messenger entered the wardroom.