But they are," said Pyecroft. He was
out on the turtle-backed bows of her; Moorshed was at the wheel, and
another man worked the whistle.
"This fog is the best thing could ha' happened to us," said Moorshed. "It
gives us our chance to run in on the quiet.... Hal-lo!"
A cracked bell rang. Clean and sharp (beautifully grained, too), a
bowsprit surged over our starboard bow, the bobstay confidentially hooking
itself into our forward rail.
I saw Pyecroft's arm fly up; heard at the same moment the severing of the
tense rope, the working of the wheel, Moorshed's voice down the tube
saying, "Astern a little, please, Mr. Hinchcliffe!" and Pyecroft's cry,
"Trawler with her gear down! Look out for our propeller, Sir, or we'll be
wrapped up in the rope."
267 surged quickly under my feet, as the pressure of the downward-bearing
bobstay was removed. Half-a-dozen men of the foc'sle had already thrown
out fenders, and stood by to bear off a just visible bulwark.
Still going astern, we touched slowly, broadside on, to a suggestive
crunching of fenders, and I looked into the deck of a Brixham trawler, her
crew struck dumb.
"Any luck?" said Moorshed politely.
"Not till we met yeou," was the answer. "The Lard he saved us from they
big ships to be spitted by the little wan. Where be'e gwine tu with our
fine new bobstay?"
"Yah! You've had time to splice it by now," said Pyecroft with contempt.
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