Moorshed, with a ruler, was
demonstrating before the frame-plan of H.M.S. _Cryptic_.
"--making nine stencils in all of my initials G.M.," I heard him say.
"Further, you will find attached to your rudder, and you, too, Sir"--he
bowed to Captain Malan yet again--"one fourteen-inch Mark IV practice
torpedo, as issued to first-class torpedo-boats, properly buoyed. I have
sent full particulars by telegraph to the umpires, and have requested them
to judge on the facts as they--appear." He nodded through the large window
to the stencilled _Devolution_ awink with brass work in the morning sun,
and ceased.
Captain Panke faced us. I remembered that this was only play, and caught
myself wondering with what keener agony comes the real defeat.
"Good God, Johnny!" he said, dropping his lower lip like a child, "this
young pup says he has put us both out of action. Inconceivable--eh? My
first command of one of the class. Eh? What shall we do with him? What
shall we do with him--eh?"
"As far as I can see, there's no getting over the stencils," his companion
answered.
"Why didn't I have the nets down? Why didn't I have the nets down?" The
cry tore itself from Captain Panke's chest as he twisted his hands.
"I suppose we'd better wait and find out what the umpires will say. The
Admiral won't be exactly pleased." Captain Malan spoke very soothingly.
Moorshed looked out through the stern door at Two Six Seven.
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