"Mr. Hinchcliffe, what's her extreme economical radius?"
"Three hundred and forty knots, down to swept bunkers."
"Can do," said Moorshed. "By the way, have her revolutions any bearing on
her speed, Mr. Hinchcliffe?"
"None that I can make out yet, Sir."
"Then slow to eight knots. We'll jog down to forty-nine, forty-five, or
four about, and three east. That puts us say forty miles from Torbay by
nine o'clock to-morrow morning. We'll have to muck about till dusk before
we run in and try our luck with the cruisers."
"Yes, Sir. Their picket boats will be panickin' round them all night. It's
considered good for the young gentlemen."
"Hallo! War's declared! They're off!" said Moorshed.
He swung 267's head round to get a better view. A few miles to our right
the low horizon was spangled with small balls of fire, while nearer ran a
procession of tiny cigar ends.
"Red hot! Set 'em alight," said Mr. Pyecroft. "That's the second destroyer
flotilla diggin' out for Commander Fassett's reputation."
The smaller lights disappeared; the glare of the destroyers' funnels
dwindled even as we watched.
"They're going down Channel with lights out, thus showin' their zeal an'
drivin' all watch-officers crazy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll
get you your pyjamas, an' you'll turn in," said Pyecroft.
He piloted me to the steel tunnel, where the ham still swung majestically
over the swaying table, and dragged out trousers and a coat with a monk's
hood, all hewn from one hairy inch-thick board.
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