“Excuse me,” said Mr. Pyecroft behind us, “_I_ don’t mind rammin’ a bathin’-machine; but if only _one_ of them week-end Weymouth blighters has thrown his empty baccy-tin into the sea here, we’ll rip our plates open on it; 267 isn’t the _Archimandrite’s_ old cutter.” “I am hugging the shore,” was the answer. “There’s no actual ’arm in huggin’, but it can come expensive if pursooed.” “Right-O!” said Moorshed, putting down the wheel, and as we left those scant waters I felt 267 move more freely. A thin cough ran up the speaking-tube. “Well, what is it, Mr. Hinchcliffe?” said Moorshed. “I merely wished to report that she is still continuin’ to go, Sir.” “Right-O! Can we whack her up to fifteen, d’you think?” “I’ll try, Sir; but we’d prefer to have the engine-room hatch open—at first, Sir.” Whacked up then she was, and for half an hour was careered largely through the night, turning at last with a suddenness that slung us across the narrow deck. “This,” said Mr. Pyecroft, who received me on his chest as a large rock receives a shadow, “represents the _Gnome_ arrivin’ cautious from the direction o’ Portsmouth, with Admiralty orders.” He pointed through the darkness ahead, and after much staring my eyes opened to a dozen destroyers, in two lines, some few hundred yards away. “Those are the Red Fleet destroyer flotilla, which is too frail to panic about among the full-blooded cruisers inside Portland breakwater, and several millimetres too excited over the approachin’ war to keep a look-out inshore. Hence our tattics!” We wailed through our siren—a long, malignant, hyena-like howl—and a voice hailed us as we went astern tumultuously. “The _Gnome_—Carteret-Jones—from Portsmouth, with orders—mm—mm—_Stiletto_,” Moorshed answered through the megaphone in a high, whining voice, rather like a chaplain’s. “_Who_?” was the answer. “Carter—et—Jones.” “Oh, Lord!” There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, “It’s Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!” Another voice echoed, “Podgie!” and from its note I gathered that Mr. Carteret-Jones had a reputation, but not for independent command. “Who’s your sub?” said the first speaker, a shadow on the bridge of the _Dirk_. “A gunner, at present, Sir. The _Stiletto_—broken down—turns over to us.” “When did the _Stiletto_ break down?” “Off the Start, Sir; two hours after—after she left here this evening, I believe. My orders are to report to you for the manœuvre signal-codes, and join Commander Hignett’s flotilla, which is in attendance on _Stiletto_.” A smothered chuckle greeted this last. Moorshed’s voice was high and uneasy. Said Pyecroft, with a sigh: “The amount o’ trouble me an’ my bright spurs ’ad fishin’ out that information from torpedo coxswains and similar blighters in pubs all this afternoon, you would never believe.” “But has the _Stiletto_ broken down?” I asked weakly.