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“Excep’ for what we gave him in the steerin’-flat when we came out o’ cells. ‘Eard anything of ‘im lately, Pye?”

“Signal Boatswain in the Channel Fleet, I believe–Mr. L.L. Niven is.”

“An’ Anstey died o’ fever in Benin,” Pritchard mused. “What come to Moon? Spit-Kid we know about.”

“Moon–Moon! Now where did I last…? Oh yes, when I was in the Palladium! I met Quigley at Buncrana Station. He told me Moon ‘ad run when the Astrild sloop was cruising among the South Seas three years back. He always showed signs o’ bein’ a Mormonastic beggar. Yes, he slipped off quietly an’ they ‘adn’t time to chase ‘im round the islands even if the navigatin’ officer ‘ad been equal to the job.”

“Wasn’t he?” said Hooper.

“Not so. Accordin’ to Quigley the Astrild spent half her commission rompin’ up the beach like a she-turtle, an’ the other half hatching turtles’ eggs on the top o’ numerous reefs. When she was docked at Sydney her copper looked like Aunt Maria’s washing on the line–an’ her ‘midship frames was sprung. The commander swore the dockyard ‘ad done it haulin’ the pore thing on to the slips. They do do strange things at sea, Mr. Hooper.”

“Ah! I’m not a tax-payer,” said Hooper, and opened a fresh bottle. The Sergeant seemed to be one who had a difficulty in dropping subjects.

“How it all comes back, don’t it?” he said. “Why Moon must ‘ave ‘ad sixteen years’ service before he ran.”

“It takes ’em at all ages. Look at–you know,” said Pyecroft.

“Who?” I asked.

“A service man within eighteen months of his pension, is the party you’re thinkin’ of,” said Pritchard. “A warrant ‘oose name begins with a V., isn’t it?”

“But, in a way o’ puttin’ it, we can’t say that he actually did desert,” Pyecroft suggested.

“Oh, no,” said Pritchard. “It was only permanent absence up country without leaf. That was all.”

“Up country?” said Hooper. “Did they circulate his description?”

“What for?” said Pritchard, most impolitely.

“Because deserters are like columns in the war. They don’t move away from the line, you see. I’ve known a chap caught at Salisbury that way tryin’ to get to Nyassa. They tell me, but o’ course I don’t know, that they don’t ask questions on the Nyassa Lake Flotilla up there. I’ve heard of a P. and O. quartermaster in full command of an armed launch there.”

“Do you think Click ‘ud ha’ gone up that way?” Pritchard asked.

“There’s no saying. He was sent up to Bloemfontein to take over some Navy ammunition left in the fort. We know he took it over and saw it into the trucks. Then there was no more Click–then or thereafter. Four months ago it transpired, and thus the casus belli stands at present,” said Pyecroft.

“What were his marks?” said Hooper again.

“Does the Railway get a reward for returnin’ ’em, then?” said Pritchard.

“If I did d’you suppose I’d talk about it?” Hooper retorted angrily.

“You seemed so very interested,” said Pritchard with equal crispness.

“Why was he called Click?” I asked to tide over an uneasy little break in the conversation. The two men were staring at each other very fixedly.

“Because of an ammunition hoist carryin’ away,” said Pyecroft. “And it carried away four of ‘is teeth–on the lower port side, wasn’t it, Pritch? The substitutes which he bought weren’t screwed home in a manner o’ sayin’. When he talked fast they used to lift a little on the bed plate. ‘Ence, ‘Click.’ They called ‘im a superior man which is what we’d call a long, black-‘aired, genteely speakin’, ‘alf-bred beggar on the lower deck.”

“Four false teeth on the lower left jaw,” said Hooper, his hand in his waistcoat pocket. “What tattoo marks?”

“Look here,” began Pritchard, half rising. “I’m sure we’re very grateful to you as a gentleman for your ‘orspitality, but per’aps we may ‘ave made an error in–“

I looked at Pyecroft for aid, Hooper was crimsoning rapidly.

“If the fat marine now occupying the foc’sle will kindly bring ‘is status quo to an anchor yet once more, we may be able to talk like gentlemen– not to say friends,” said Pyecroft. “He regards you, Mr. Hooper, as a emissary of the Law.”