“How else are we to get Red Fleet’s private signal-code? Any way, if she ’asn’t now, she will before manœuvres are ended. It’s only executin’ in anticipation.” “Go astern and send your coxswain aboard for orders, Mr. Jones.” Water carries sound well, but I do not know whether we were intended to hear the next sentence: “They must have given him _one_ intelligent keeper.” “That’s me,” said Mr. Pyecroft, as a black and coal-stained dinghy—I did not foresee how well I should come to know her—was flung overside by three men. “Havin’ bought an ’am, we will now see life.” He stepped into the boat and was away. “I say, Podgie!”—the speaker was in the last of the line of destroyers, as we thumped astern—“aren’t you lonely out there?” “Oh, don’t rag me!” said Moorshed. “Do you suppose I’ll have to manœuvre with your flo-tilla?” “No, Podgie! I’m pretty sure our commander will see you sifting cinders in Tophet before you come with our flo-tilla.” “Thank you! She steers rather wild at high speeds.” Two men laughed together. “By the way, who is Mr. Carteret-Jones when he’s at home?” I whispered. “I was with him in the _Britannia_. I didn’t like him much, but I’m grateful to him now. I must tell him so some day.” “They seemed to know him hereabouts.” “He rammed the _Caryatid_ twice with her own steam-pinnace.” Presently, moved by long strokes, Mr. Pyecroft returned, skimming across the dark. The dinghy swung up behind him, even as his heel spurned it. “Commander Fasset’s compliments to Mr. L. Carteret-Jones, and the sooner he digs out in pursuance of Admiralty orders as received at Portsmouth, the better pleased Commander Fasset will be. But there’s a lot more——” “Whack her up, Mr. Hinchcliffe! Come on to the bridge. We can settle it as we go. Well?” Mr. Pyecroft drew an important breath, and slid off his cap. “Day an’ night private signals of Red Fleet _com_plete, Sir!” He handed a little paper to Moorshed. “You see, Sir, the trouble was, that Mr. Carteret-Jones bein’, so to say, a little new to his duties, ’ad forgot to give ’is gunner his Admiralty orders in writin’, but, as I told Commander Fasset, Mr. Jones had been repeatin’ ’em to me, nervous-like, most of the way from Portsmouth, so I knew ’em by heart—an’ better. The Commander, recognisin’ in me a man of agility, cautioned me to be a father an’ mother to Mr. Carteret-Jones.” “Didn’t he know you?” I asked, thinking for the moment that there could be no duplicates of Emanuel Pyecroft in the Navy.