'"_
"Awful?" I said.
"No--offal--tripes--swipes--ullage." Mr. Pyecroft entered, in the costume
of his calling, with the ham and an assortment of tin dishes, which he
dealt out like cards.
"I shall take these as my orders," said Mr. Moorshed. "I'm chucking the
Service at the end of the year, so it doesn't matter."
We cut into the ham under the ill-trimmed lamp, washed it down with
whisky, and then smoked. From the foreside of the bulkhead came an
uninterrupted hammering and clinking, and now and then a hiss of steam.
"That's Mr. Hinchcliffe," said Pyecroft. "He's what is called a first-
class engine-room artificer. If you hand 'im a drum of oil an' leave 'im
alone, he can coax a stolen bicycle to do typewritin'."
Very leisurely, at the end of his first pipe, Mr. Moorshed drew out a
folded map, cut from a newspaper, of the area of manoeuvres, with the
rules that regulate these wonderful things, below.
"Well, I suppose I know as much as an average stick-and-string admiral,"
he said, yawning. "Is our petticoat ready yet, Mr. Pyecroft?"
As a preparation for naval manoeuvres these councils seemed inadequate. I
followed up the ladder into the gloom cast by the wharf edge and the big
lumber-ship's side. As my eyes stretched to the darkness I saw that No.
267 had miraculously sprouted an extra pair of funnels--soft, for they
gave as I touched them.
"More _prima facie_ evidence.
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