"Hallo! what boat's that?" said the voice suspiciously.
"Why, I do believe it's a real man-o'-war, after all," said Pyecroft, and
kicked Laughton.
"What's that for?" Laughton was no dramatist.
"Answer in character, you blighter! Say somethin' opposite."
"What boat's _thatt_?" The hail was repeated.
"What do yee say-ay?" Pyecroft bellowed, and, under his breath to me:
"Give us a hand."
"It's called the _Marietta_--F. J. Stokes--Torquay," I began, quaveringly.
"At least, that's the name on the name-board. I've been dining--on a
yacht."
"I see." The voice shook a little, and my way opened before me with
disgraceful ease.
"Yesh. Dining private yacht. _Eshmesheralda_. I belong to Torquay Yacht
Club. _Are_ you member Torquay Yacht Club?"
"You'd better go to bed, Sir. Good-night." We slid into the rapidly
thinning fog.
"Dig out, Alf. Put your _nix mangiare_ back into it. The fog's peelin'
off like a petticoat. Where's Two Six Seven?"
"I can't see her," I replied, "but there's a light low down ahead."
"The _Agatha_!" They rowed desperately through the uneasy dispersal of the
fog for ten minutes and ducked round the trawler's bow.
"Well, Emanuel means 'God with us'--so far." Pyecroft wiped his brow, laid
a hand on the low rail, and as he boosted me up to the trawler, I saw
Moorshed's face, white as pearl in the thinning dark.
"Was it all right?" said he, over the bulwarks.
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