Part 14 (2/2)
”An' I've 'eard the _Devolution_ called a happy s.h.i.+p, 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 a.s.sured 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. n.o.body wished to buy any fish. This s.h.i.+p was the _Devolution_ at anchor, and desired no communication with sh.o.r.e 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.
”Dig out, Alf. Put your _nix mangiare_ back into it. The fog's peelin'
off like a petticoat. Where's Two Six Seven?”
”I can't see her,” I replied, ”but there's a light low down ahead.”
”The _Agatha_!” They rowed desperately through the uneasy dispersal of the fog for ten minutes and ducked round the trawler's bow.
”Well, Emanuel means 'G.o.d with us'--so far.” Pyecroft wiped his brow, laid a hand on the low rail, and as he boosted me up to the trawler, I saw Moorshed's face, white as pearl in the thinning dark.
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