"Sometime before daylight," muttered that gentleman, getting up. "I'll go with you, but mind, you got to stand by to row me back whenever I want you. Understand? No going off with your _matelots_. Nice thing, if anything should happen and me out o' the ship." "All right, all right. You don't need to get sore with your own bosun," said Plouff. "I can tell you, you might have a worse one. Here's me, sits all the evening, playin' rummy and one eye on the ship from that American bar, and all you can do's get sore. What do you think I am, a bum? If it hadn't been for me havin' my eyes about me in Port Said, them A-rabs would ha' stove her in against the next ship twenty time. Me sittin' up half the night makin' fenders. Oh, yes!" "Come on then. You're as bad as the Old Man when it comes to chewing the rag. Can you talk French like that?" "As good as English. Faster. More of it. I know more French words than English." "Lord help us." Mr. Spokesly poked the tiller-bar into the rudder and hung the latter over the stern of the boat, which Plouff had been hauling along to the gangway. "Now then. Got a lantern? Don't light it. Bear away." Instructed by Plouff, Mr. Spokesly steered due east away from the ship and concealed by it from the eyes on watch on the warships. Then after half a mile he turned sharply about and Plouff slowed down until the boat just moved through the water and they were quite lost in the intense darkness. Plouff said: "Now we got nothing to be scared of except searchlights. But it's only Wednesday night they work 'em." "Why do you get only Frenchmen at this place?" asked Mr. Spokesly. "Because it's near their hospital and rest-camp. The English are all down by the Bersina Gardens. So the Frenchies go to talk to the poilus. French sailors don't have much truck with English sailors, you can bet." "Well, you wouldn't if you couldn't talk to them either," retorted Mr. Spokesly. "Now where do we go in?" "Ship the rudder," said the bosun. "I'll fetch round myself." They were now in the profound shadows of a short back-water formed by the corner of the old _café-chantant_ and cinema garden which had been fashioned out of the romantic dwelling whose earlier history Plouff had recounted with such relish. The big doors of the water entrance had been removed and the shed itself partly boarded over. There was no one in sight, and only a small tin lamp on the wall, but there was an air of recent occupancy, of human proximity, of frequent appearances, about the place. A boat was thrust half under the planks, and the door at the back had a black patch where many hands had polished it in passing through. Beneath the door shone a crack of bright light. Plouff, shipping his oars, brought up softly alongside the other boat, and stepped ashore across the thwarts with the painter in his hand. "Here we are," he chuckled. "Snug as a bug in a rug. Bring her in under. Make fast."