"
"Come on the bridge," said Mr. Moorshed. I saw no bridge, but fell over
some sort of conning-tower forward, near which was a wheel. For the next
few minutes I was more occupied with cursing my own folly than with the
science of navigation. Therefore I cannot say how we got out of Weymouth
Harbour, nor why it was necessary to turn sharp to the left and wallow in
what appeared to be surf.
"Excuse me," said Mr. Pyecroft behind us, "_I_ don't mind rammin' a
bathin'-machine; but if only _one_ of them week-end Weymouth blighters has
thrown his empty baccy-tin into the sea here, we'll rip our plates open on
it; 267 isn't the _Archimandrite's_ old cutter."
"I am hugging the shore," was the answer.
"There's no actual 'arm in huggin', but it can come expensive if
pursooed."
"Right-O!" said Moorshed, putting down the wheel, and as we left those
scant waters I felt 267 move more freely.
A thin cough ran up the speaking-tube.
"Well, what is it, Mr. Hinchcliffe?" said Moorshed.
"I merely wished to report that she is still continuin' to go, Sir."
"Right-O! Can we whack her up to fifteen, d'you think?"
"I'll try, Sir; but we'd prefer to have the engine-room hatch open--at
first, Sir."
Whacked up then she was, and for half an hour was careered largely through
the night, turning at last with a suddenness that slung us across the
narrow deck.
"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.
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