"Aie; but we'm all crushed to port like aigs. You was runnin' twenty-seven
knots, us reckoned it. Didn't us, Albert?"
"Liker twenty-nine, an' niver no whistle."
"Yes, we always do that. Do you want a tow to Brixham?" said Moorshed.
A great silence fell upon those wet men of the sea.
We lifted a little toward their side, but our silent, quick-breathing
crew, braced and strained outboard, bore us off as though we had been a
mere picket-boat.
"What for?" said a puzzled voice.
"For love; for nothing. You'll be abed in Brixham by midnight."
"Yiss; but trawl's down."
"No hurry. I'll pass you a line and go ahead. Sing out when you're ready."
A rope smacked on their deck with the word; they made it fast; we slid
forward, and in ten seconds saw nothing save a few feet of the wire rope
running into fog over our stern; but we heard the noise of debate.
"Catch a Brixham trawler letting go of a free tow in a fog," said Moorshed
listening.
"But what in the world do you want him for?" I asked.
"Oh, he'll came in handy later."
"Was that your first collision?"
"Yes." I shook hands with him in silence, and our tow hailed us.
"Aie! yeou little man-o'-war!" The voice rose muffled and wailing. "After
us've upped trawl, us'll be glad of a tow. Leave line just slack abaout as
'tis now, and kip a good fine look-out be'ind 'ee."
"There's an accommodatin' blighter for you!" said Pyecroft.
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