Wish to speak by
semaphore." Then on the bridge semaphore itself: "Have been trying to
attract your attention last half hour. Send commanding officer aboard at
once."
"Our attention? After all the attention we've given 'er, too," said
Pyecroft. "What a greedy old woman!" To Moorshed: "Signal from the
_Cryptic_, Sir."
"Never mind that!" said the boy, peering through his glasses. "Our dinghy
quick, or they'll paint our marks out. Come along!"
By this time I was long past even hysteria. I remember Pyecroft's bending
back, the surge of the driven dinghy, a knot of amazed faces as we skimmed
the _Cryptic's_ ram, and the dropped jaw of the midshipman in her whaler
when we barged fairly into him.
"Mind my paint!" he yelled.
"You mind mine, snotty," said Moorshed. "I was all night putting these
little ear-marks on you for the umpires to sit on. Leave 'em alone."
We splashed past him to the _Devolution's_ boat, where sat no one less
than her first lieutenant, a singularly unhandy-looking officer.
"What the deuce is the meaning of this?" he roared, with an accusing
forefinger.
"You're sunk, that's all. You've been dead half a tide."
"Dead, am I? I'll show you whether I'm dead or not, Sir!"
"Well, you may be a survivor," said Moorshed ingratiatingly, "though it
isn't at all likely."
The officer choked for a minute. The midshipman crouched up in stern said,
half aloud: "Then I _was_ right--last night.
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