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“This,” said Mr. Pyecroft, who received me on his chest as a large rock receives a shadow, “represents the Gnome arrivin’ cautious from the direction o’ Portsmouth, with Admiralty orders.”

He pointed through the darkness ahead, and after much staring my eyes opened to a dozen destroyers, in two lines, some few hundred yards away.

“Those are the Red Fleet destroyer flotilla, which is too frail to panic about among the full-blooded cruisers inside Portland breakwater, and several millimetres too excited over the approachin’ war to keep a look- out inshore. Hence our tattics!”

We wailed through our siren–a long, malignant, hyena-like howl–and a voice hailed us as we went astern tumultuously.

“The Gnome–Carteret-Jones–from Portsmouth, with orders–mm–mm– Stiletto,” Moorshed answered through the megaphone in a high, whining voice, rather like a chaplain’s.

“Who?” was the answer.

“Carter–et–Jones.”

“Oh, Lord!”

There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, “It’s Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!”

Another voice echoed, “Podgie!” and from its note I gathered that Mr. Carteret-Jones had a reputation, but not for independent command.

“Who’s your sub?” said the first speaker, a shadow on the bridge of the Dirk.

“A gunner, at present, Sir. The Stiletto–broken down–turns over to us.”

“When did the Stiletto break down?”

“Off the Start, Sir; two hours after–after she left here this evening, I believe. My orders are to report to you for the manoeuvre signal-codes, and join Commander Hignett’s flotilla, which is in attendance on Stiletto.”

A smothered chuckle greeted this last. Moorshed’s voice was high and uneasy. Said Pyecroft, with a sigh: “The amount o’ trouble me an’ my bright spurs ‘ad fishin’ out that information from torpedo coxswains and similar blighters in pubs all this afternoon, you would never believe.”

“But has the Stiletto broken down?” I asked weakly.

“How else are we to get Red Fleet’s private signal-code? Any way, if she ‘asn’t now, she will before manoeuvres are ended. It’s only executin’ in anticipation.”

“Go astern and send your coxswain aboard for orders, Mr. Jones.” Water carries sound well, but I do not know whether we were intended to hear the next sentence: “They must have given him one intelligent keeper.”

“That’s me,” said Mr. Pyecroft, as a black and coal-stained dinghy–I did not foresee how well I should come to know her–was flung overside by three men.

“Havin’ bought an ‘am, we will now see life.” He stepped into the boat and was away.

“I say, Podgie!”–the speaker was in the last of the line of destroyers, as we thumped astern–“aren’t you lonely out there?”

“Oh, don’t rag me!” said Moorshed. “Do you suppose I’ll have to manoeuvre with your flo-tilla?”

“No, Podgie! I’m pretty sure our commander will see you sifting cinders in Tophet before you come with our flo-tilla.”

“Thank you! She steers rather wild at high speeds.”

Two men laughed together.

“By the way, who is Mr. Carteret-Jones when he’s at home?” I whispered.

“I was with him in the Britannia. I didn’t like him much, but I’m grateful to him now. I must tell him so some day.”

“They seemed to know him hereabouts.”

“He rammed the Caryatid twice with her own steam-pinnace.”

Presently, moved by long strokes, Mr. Pyecroft returned, skimming across the dark. The dinghy swung up behind him, even as his heel spurned it.

“Commander Fasset’s compliments to Mr. L. Carteret-Jones, and the sooner he digs out in pursuance of Admiralty orders as received at Portsmouth, the better pleased Commander Fasset will be. But there’s a lot more—-“

“Whack her up, Mr. Hinchcliffe! Come on to the bridge. We can settle it as we go. Well?”

Mr. Pyecroft drew an important breath, and slid off his cap.

“Day an’ night private signals of Red Fleet complete, Sir!” He handed a little paper to Moorshed. “You see, Sir, the trouble was, that Mr. Carteret-Jones bein’, so to say, a little new to his duties, ‘ad forgot to give ‘is gunner his Admiralty orders in writin’, but, as I told Commander Fasset, Mr. Jones had been repeatin’ ’em to me, nervous-like, most of the way from Portsmouth, so I knew ’em by heart–an’ better. The Commander, recognisin’ in me a man of agility, cautioned me to be a father an’ mother to Mr. Carteret-Jones.”