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“Umpires are ‘ard-‘earted blighters, but this ought to convince ’em…. Captain Panke’s stern-walk is now above our defenceless ‘eads. Repeat the evolution up the starboard side, Alf.”

I was only conscious that we moved around an iron world palpitating with life. Though my knowledge was all by touch–as, for example, when Pyecroft led my surrendered hand to the base of some bulging sponson, or when my palm closed on the knife-edge of the stem and patted it timidly–yet I felt lonely and unprotected as the enormous, helpless ship was withdrawn, and we drifted away into the void where voices sang:

Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy gray mare,
All along, out along, down along lea!
I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair
With Bill Brewer, Sam Sewer, Peter Gurney, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley an’ all!

“That’s old Sinbad an’ ‘is little lot from the Agatha! Give way, Alf! You might sing somethin’, too.”

“I’m no burnin’ Patti. Ain’t there noise enough for you, Pye?”

“Yes, but it’s only amateurs. Give me the tones of ‘earth and ‘ome. Ha! List to the blighter on the ‘orizon sayin’ his prayers, Navy-fashion. ‘Eaven ‘elp me argue that way when I’m a warrant-officer!”

We headed with little lapping strokes toward what seemed to be a fair- sized riot.

“An’ I’ve ‘eard the Devolution called a happy ship, too,” said Pyecroft. “Just shows ‘ow a man’s misled by prejudice. She’s peevish–that’s what she is–nasty-peevish. Prob’ly all because the Agathites are scratching ‘er paint. Well, rub along, Alf. I’ve got the lymph!”

A voice, which Mr. Pyecroft assured me belonged to a chief carpenter, was speaking through an aperture (starboard bow twelve-pounder on the lower deck). He did not wish to purchase any fish, even at grossly reduced rates. Nobody wished to buy any fish. This ship was the Devolution at anchor, and desired no communication with shore boats.

“Mark how the Navy ‘olds it’s own. He’s sober. The Agathites are not, as you might say, an’ yet they can’t live with ‘im. It’s the discipline that does it. ‘Ark to the bald an’ unconvincin’ watch-officer chimin’ in. I wonder where Mr. Moorshed has got to?”

We drifted down the Devolution’s side, as we had drifted down her sister’s; and we dealt with her in that dense gloom as we had dealt with her sister.

“Whai! ‘Tis a man-o’-war, after all! I can see the captain’s whisker all gilt at the edges! We took ‘ee for the Bournemouth steamer. Three cheers for the real man-o’-war!”

That cry came from under the Devolution’s stern. Pyecroft held something in his teeth, for I heard him mumble, “Our Mister Moorshed!”

Said a boy’s voice above us, just as we dodged a jet of hot water from some valve: “I don’t half like that cheer. If I’d been the old man I’d ha’ turned loose the quick-firers at the first go-off. Aren’t they rowing Navy-stroke, yonder?”

“True,” said Pyecroft, listening to retreating oars. “It’s time to go ‘ome when snotties begin to think. The fog’s thinnin’, too.”

I felt a chill breath on my forehead, and saw a few feet of the steel stand out darker than the darkness, disappear–it was then the dinghy shot away from it–and emerge once more.

“Hallo! what boat’s that?” said the voice suspiciously.

“Why, I do believe it’s a real man-o’-war, after all,” said Pyecroft, and kicked Laughton.

“What’s that for?” Laughton was no dramatist.

“Answer in character, you blighter! Say somethin’ opposite.”

“What boat’s thatt?” The hail was repeated.

“What do yee say-ay?” Pyecroft bellowed, and, under his breath to me: “Give us a hand.”

“It’s called the Marietta–F. J. Stokes–Torquay,” I began, quaveringly. “At least, that’s the name on the name-board. I’ve been dining–on a yacht.”

“I see.” The voice shook a little, and my way opened before me with disgraceful ease.

“Yesh. Dining private yacht. Eshmesheralda. I belong to Torquay Yacht Club. Are you member Torquay Yacht Club?”

“You’d better go to bed, Sir. Good-night.” We slid into the rapidly thinning fog.