I stood back to avoid the rush of half-a-dozen shadows dropping into the Berthon boat. A hand caught me by the slack of my garments, moved me in generous arcs through the night, and I rested on the bottom of the dinghy. “I want you for _prima facie_ evidence, in case the vaccination don’t take,” said Pyecroft in my ear. “Push off, Alf!” The last bell-ringing was high overhead. It was followed by six little tinkles from the _Agatha_, the roar of her falling anchor, the clash of pans, and loose shouting. “Where be gwine tu? Port your ’ellum. Aie! you mud-dredger in the fairway, goo astern! Out boats! She’ll sink us!” A clear-cut Navy voice drawled from the clouds: “Quiet! you gardeners there. This is the _Cryptic_ at anchor.” “Thank you for the range,” said Pyecroft, and paddled gingerly. “Feel well out in front of you, Alf. Remember your fat fist is our only Marconi installation.” The voices resumed: “Bournemouth steamer he says she be.” “Then where be Brixham Harbor?” “Damme, I’m a tax-payer tu. They’ve no right to cruise about this way. I’ll have the laa on ’ee if anything carries away.” Then the man-of-war: “Short on your anchor! Heave short, you howling maniacs! You’ll get yourselves smashed in a minute if you drift.” The air was full of these and other voices as the dinghy, checking, swung. I passed one hand down Laughton’s stretched arm and felt an iron gooseneck and a foot or two of a backward-sloping torpedo-net boom. The other hand I laid on broad, cold iron—even the flanks of H.M.S. _Cryptic_, which is twelve thousand tons. I heard a scrubby, raspy sound, as though Pyecroft had chosen that hour to shave, and I smelled paint. “Drop aft a bit, Alf; we’ll put a stencil under the stern six-inch casements.” Boom by boom Laughlin slid the dinghy along the towering curved wall. Once, twice, and again we stopped, and the keen scrubbing sound was renewed. “Umpires are ’ard-’earted blighters, but this ought to convince ’em…. Captain Panke’s stern-walk is now above our defenceless ’eads. Repeat the evolution up the starboard side, Alf.” I was only conscious that we moved around an iron world palpitating with life. Though my knowledge was all by touch—as, for example, when Pyecroft led my surrendered hand to the base of some bulging sponson, or when my palm closed on the knife-edge of the stem and patted it timidly—yet I felt lonely and unprotected as the enormous, helpless ship was withdrawn, and we drifted away into the void where voices sang: Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy gray mare, All along, out along, down along lea! I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair With Bill Brewer, Sam Sewer, Peter Gurney, Harry Hawke, Old Uncle Tom Cobley an’ all! “That’s old Sinbad an’ ’is little lot from the _Agatha_! Give way, Alf! _You_ might sing somethin’, too.” “I’m no burnin’ Patti. Ain’t there noise enough for you, Pye?”