You'd better try to come to attention, Sir."
Moorshed ran his eye voluptuously over the upper deck battery, the huge
beam, and the immaculate perspective of power. Captain Panke and Captain
Malan stood on the well-browned flash-plates by the dazzling hatch.
Precisely over the flagstaff I saw Two Six Seven astern, her black
petticoat half hitched up, meekly floating on the still sea. She looked
like the pious Abigail who has just spoken her mind, and, with folded
hands, sits thanking Heaven among the pieces. I could almost have sworn
that she wore black worsted gloves and had a little dry cough. But it was
Captain Panke that coughed so austerely. He favoured us with a lecture on
uniform, deportment, and the urgent necessity of answering signals from a
senior ship. He told us that he disapproved of masquerading, that he loved
discipline, and would be obliged by an explanation. And while he delivered
himself deeper and more deeply into our hands, I saw Captain Malan wince.
He was watching Moorshed's eye.
"I belong to Blue Fleet, Sir. I command Number Two Six Seven," said
Moorshed, and Captain Planke was dumb. "Have you such a thing as a frame-
plan of the _Cryptic_ aboard?" He spoke with winning politeness as he
opened a small and neatly folded paper.
"I have, sir." The little man's face was working with passion.
"Ah! Then I shall be able to show you precisely where you were torpedoed
last night in"--he consulted the paper with one finely arched eyebrow--"in
nine places.
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