As soon as the door closed, the midshipman opened the book, eager to know the latest blow that fate had dealt him. He was not mistaken in his forebodings. In the commander’s small and clear handwriting appeared:
“Motor-picket-boat will proceed to Mautby at 23.30 to bring officers off to the ship.”
Raxworthy glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. It was now 11.30 a.m. In twelve hours—thirty minutes before midnight—he would have to make another hateful run into Mautby to fetch the surgeon-commander and the engineer-lieutenant who apparently had found sufficient attraction ashore to spend an evening either in or on the outskirts of that desolate town.
“I believe the Bloke persuaded them to go so that he’d get the chance of sending me to bring them off,” ruminated the midshipman. “If this isn’t a dog’s life, what is?”
By ten in the evening the gale had moderated somewhat, although the sea ran high. Rigged out in oilskins and sea-boots, Raxworthy came on deck and went to the side.
The picket-boat was straining at the lower boom, shipping it green as the bow-rope took the strain. In the sickly gleam of the starboard navigation lamp the sea looked particularly forbidding and the boat herself a mere cockleshell.
“All correct, sir,” reported the coxswain.
“Plenty of fuel?”
“Paraffin tank full, sir, and a gallon of petrol for starting up.”
“Good!” ejaculated Raxworthy. “Lead on, coxswain!”