"That all? I thought it was a propeller-blade."
"We must go an' look for it. There isn't another."
"Not me," said Pyecroft from his seat. "Out pinnace, Hinch, an' creep for
it. It won't be more than five miles back."
The two men, with bowed heads, moved up the road.
"Look like etymologists, don't they? Does she decant her innards often, so
to speak?" Pyecroft asked.
I told him the true tale of a race-full of ball bearings strewn four miles
along a Hampshire road, and by me recovered in detail. He was profoundly
touched.
"Poor Hinch! Poor--poor Hinch!" he said. "And that's only one of her
little games, is it? He'll be homesick for the Navy by night."
When the search-party doubled back with the missing screw, it was
Hinchcliffe who replaced it in less than five minutes, while my engineer
looked on admiringly.
"Your boiler's only seated on four little paperclips," he said, crawling
from beneath her. "She's a wicker-willow lunch-basket below. She's a
runnin' miracle. Have you had this combustible spirit-lamp long?"
I told him.
"And yet you were afraid to come into the _Nightmare's_ engine-room when
we were runnin' trials!"
"It's all a matter of taste," Pyecroft volunteered. "But I will say for
you, Hinch, you've certainly got the hang of her steamin' gadgets in quick
time."
He was driving her very sweetly, but with a worried look in his eye and a
tremor in his arm.
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