Moorshed
dreamily. "Go on, Pyecroft."
"--bein' delayed by minor defects in engine-room, did _not_, as we know,
accompany Red Fleet's first division of scouting cruisers, whose
rendezvous is unknown, but presumed to be somewhere off the Lizard.
_Cryptic_ an' _Devolution_ left at 9:30 P.M. still reportin' copious minor
defects in engine-room. Admiral's final instructions was they was to put
into Torbay, an' mend themselves there. If they can do it in twenty-four
hours, they're to come on and join the battle squadron at the first
rendezvous, down Channel somewhere. (I couldn't get that, Sir.) If they
can't, he'll think about sendin' them some destroyers for escort. But his
present intention is to go 'ammer and tongs down Channel, usin' 'is
destroyers for all they're worth, an' thus keepin' Blue Fleet too busy off
the Irish coast to sniff into any eshtuaries."
"But if those cruisers are crocks, why does the Admiral let 'em out of
Weymouth at all?" I asked.
"The tax-payer," said Mr. Moorshed.
"An' newspapers," added Mr. Pyecroft. "In Torbay they'll look as they was
muckin' about for strategical purposes--hanamerin' like blazes in the
engine room all the weary day, an' the skipper droppin' questions down the
engine-room hatch every two or three minutes. _I've_ been there. Now,
Sir?" I saw the white of his eye turn broad on Mr. Moorshed.
The boy dropped his chin over the speaking-tube.
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