“—bein’ delayed by minor defects in engine-room, did _not_, as we know, accompany Red Fleet’s first division of scouting cruisers, whose rendezvous is unknown, but presumed to be somewhere off the Lizard. _Cryptic_ an’ _Devolution_ left at 9:30 P.M. still reportin’ copious minor defects in engine-room. Admiral’s final instructions was they was to put into Torbay, an’ mend themselves there. If they can do it in twenty-four hours, they’re to come on and join the battle squadron at the first rendezvous, down Channel somewhere. (I couldn’t get that, Sir.) If they can’t, he’ll think about sendin’ them some destroyers for escort. But his present intention is to go ’ammer and tongs down Channel, usin’ ’is destroyers for all they’re worth, an’ thus keepin’ Blue Fleet too busy off the Irish coast to sniff into any eshtuaries.” “But if those cruisers are crocks, why does the Admiral let ’em out of Weymouth at all?” I asked. “The tax-payer,” said Mr. Moorshed. “An’ newspapers,” added Mr. Pyecroft. “In Torbay they’ll look as they was muckin’ about for strategical purposes—hammerin’ like blazes in the engine room all the weary day, an’ the skipper droppin’ questions down the engine-room hatch every two or three minutes. _I’ve_ been there. Now, Sir?” I saw the white of his eye turn broad on Mr. Moorshed. The boy dropped his chin over the speaking-tube. “Mr. Hinchcliffe, what’s her extreme economical radius?” “Three hundred and forty knots, down to swept bunkers.” “Can do,” said Moorshed. “By the way, have her revolutions any bearing on her speed, Mr. Hinchcliffe?” “None that I can make out yet, Sir.” “Then slow to eight knots. We’ll jog down to forty-nine, forty-five, or four about, and three east. That puts us say forty miles from Torbay by nine o’clock to-morrow morning. We’ll have to muck about till dusk before we run in and try our luck with the cruisers.” “Yes, Sir. Their picket boats will be panickin’ round them all night. It’s considered good for the young gentlemen.” “Hallo! War’s declared! They’re off!” said Moorshed. He swung 267’s head round to get a better view. A few miles to our right the low horizon was spangled with small balls of fire, while nearer ran a procession of tiny cigar ends. “Red hot! Set ’em alight,” said Mr. Pyecroft. “That’s the second destroyer flotilla diggin’ out for Commander Fassett’s reputation.” The smaller lights disappeared; the glare of the destroyers’ funnels dwindled even as we watched. “They’re going down Channel with lights out, thus showin’ their zeal an’ drivin’ all watch-officers crazy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll get you your pyjamas, an’ you’ll turn in,” said Pyecroft. He piloted me to the steel tunnel, where the ham still swung majestically over the swaying table, and dragged out trousers and a coat with a monk’s hood, all hewn from one hairy inch-thick board.