"Vaccination ain't in it. She's took beautiful. But where's 267, Sir?"
Pyecroft replied.
"Gone. We came here as the fog lifted. I gave the _Devolution_ four. Was
that you behind us?"
"Yes, sir; but I only got in three on the _Devolution_. I gave the
_Cryptic_ nine, though. They're what you might call more or less
vaccinated."
He lifted me inboard, where Moorshed and six pirates lay round the
_Agatha's_ hatch. There was a hint of daylight in the cool air.
"Where is the old man?" I asked.
"Still selling 'em fish, I suppose. He's a darling! But I wish I could get
this filthy paint off my hands. Hallo! What the deuce is the _Cryptic_
signalling?"
A pale masthead light winked through the last of the fog. It was answered
by a white pencil to the southward.
"Destroyer signalling with searchlight." Pyecroft leaped on the stern-
rail. "The first part is private signals. Ah! now she's Morsing against
the fog. 'P-O-S-T'--yes, 'postpone'--'D-E-P-' (go on)! 'departure--till--
further--orders--which--will--be com" (he's dropped the other m)
"'unicated--verbally. End,'." He swung round. "_Cryptic_ is now answering:
'Ready--proceed--immediately. What--news--promised--destroyer--
flotilla?'"
"Hallo!" said Moorshed. "Well, never mind, They'll come too late."
"Whew! That's some 'igh-born suckling on the destroyer. Destroyer signals:
'Care not. All will be known later.
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