"There are five more to starboard. 'Ere's the original!" He handed me a
paint-dappled copper stencil-plate, two feet square, bearing in the centre
the six-inch initials, "G.M."
"Ten minutes ago I'd ha' eulogised about that little trick of ours, but
Morgan's performance has short-circuited me. Are you happy, Morgan?"
"Bustin'," said the signalman briefly.
"You may be. Gawd forgive you, Morgan, for as Queen 'Enrietta said to the
'ousemaid, _I_ never will. I'd ha' given a year's pay for ten minutes o'
your signallin' work this mornin'."
"I wouldn't 'ave took it up," was the answer. "Perishin' 'Eavens above!
Look at the _Devolution's_ semaphore!" Two black wooden arms waved from
the junior ship's upper bridge. "They've seen it."
"_The_ mote _on_ their neighbour's beam, of course," said Pyecroft, and
read syllable by syllable: "'Captain Malan to Captain Panke. Is--sten--
cilled frieze your starboard side new Admiralty regulation, or your Number
One's private expense?' Now _Cryptic_ is saying, 'Not understood.' Poor
old _Crippy_, the _Devolute's_ raggin' 'er sore. 'Who is G.M.?' she says.
That's fetched the _Cryptic_. She's answerin': 'You ought to know. Examine
own paintwork.' Oh, Lord! they're both on to it now. This is balm. This is
beginning to be balm. I forgive you, Morgan!"
Two frantic pipes twittered. From either cruiser a whaler dropped into the
water and madly rowed round the ship: as a gay-coloured hoist rose to the
_Cryptic's_ yardarm: "Destroyer will close at once.
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