I expect they've trusted to the fog--like us. Well,
Pyecroft?"
That great soul had blown up on to the bridge like a feather. "'Ad to see
the first o' the rum into the _Agathites_, Sir. They was a bit jealous o'
their commandin' officer comin' 'ome so richly lacquered, and at first the
_conversazione_ languished, as you might say. But they sprang to attention
ere I left. Six sharp strokes on the bells, if any of 'em are sober enough
to keep tally, will be the signal that our consort 'as cast off her tow
an' is manceuvrin' on 'er own."
"Right O! Take Laughton with you in the dinghy. Put that Berthon over
quietly there! Are you all right, Mr. Hinchcliffe?"
I stood back to avoid the rush of half-a-dozen shadows dropping into the
Berthon boat. A hand caught me by the slack of my garments, moved me in
generous arcs through the night, and I rested on the bottom of the dinghy.
"I want you for _prima facie_ evidence, in case the vaccination don't
take," said Pyecroft in my ear. "Push off, Alf!"
The last bell-ringing was high overhead. It was followed by six little
tinkles from the _Agatha_, the roar of her falling anchor, the clash of
pans, and loose shouting.
"Where be gwine tu? Port your 'ellum. Aie! you mud-dredger in the fairway,
goo astern! Out boats! She'll sink us!"
A clear-cut Navy voice drawled from the clouds: "Quiet! you gardeners
there. This is the _Cryptic_ at anchor.
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