“That’s when _we_ nabbed ’em,” said Brakespear. “They were trying to nip for Ostend, and they put up a very pretty little scrap, thanks, Jerry. We Destroyers were waiting outside.” “Not ’t all!” said the Flying Man modestly; “we’d had all the fun we wanted. There was a squadron of Handley Pages there, and some French machines, and they made the oil-tanks look like Cities of the Plain before they went home.” He turned to Longridge. “’Member the review at Spithead before the war--when they had that searchlight display, all the beams whirling round in the sky? You dined with me that night.” Longridge nodded. “I remember. We went on deck to watch the performance.... It made me sick,” he concluded naïvely. “Well,” said Jerome, “I looked back over my shoulder on the return journey, and thought of that night at Spithead. The sky looked like a huge Catherine wheel. We made a photographic reconnaissance next day....” he clucked softly with his tongue against his teeth. “Tony,” he said, “that place looked like your face would if you got small-pox after fighting ten rounds with Jack Johnson without gloves.” “Thank you,” said his host. “Simile seems to be your strong point to-night.” “It’s the drink,” said Longridge. “He develops a graphic style if you leave the decanter near him and don’t interrupt.” “Where did you catch ’em, Brakes, you and your precious T.B.D.’s?” asked Foster. “We were going home when the fun started. Laid our eggs early and decided that the quiet life was the thing that really appealed to us.” “Close in,” was the reply. “One Division cut ’em off and the other waited for ’em. It was a well-organised little show.” He laughed. “Ever since that show of the _Broke’s_ every mother’s son in the Destroyer Force walks about with a fire-bar down the leg of his trousers--so as to have it handy, don’t you know.... My foremost guns’ crews spend their dog-watches sharpening their cutlasses on their razor-strops and making knuckle-dusters: ... the sailor is nothing if he isn’t thorough.