“You’d better go to bed, Sir. Good-night.” We slid into the rapidly thinning fog. “Dig out, Alf. Put your _nix mangiare_ back into it. The fog’s peelin’ off like a petticoat. Where’s Two Six Seven?” “I can’t see her,” I replied, “but there’s a light low down ahead.” “The _Agatha_!” They rowed desperately through the uneasy dispersal of the fog for ten minutes and ducked round the trawler’s bow. “Well, Emanuel means ‘God with us’—so far.” Pyecroft wiped his brow, laid a hand on the low rail, and as he boosted me up to the trawler, I saw Moorshed’s face, white as pearl in the thinning dark. “Was it all right?” said he, over the bulwarks. “Vaccination ain’t in it. She’s took beautiful. But where’s 267, Sir?” Pyecroft replied. “Gone. We came here as the fog lifted. I gave the _Devolution_ four. Was that you behind us?” “Yes, sir; but I only got in three on the _Devolution_. I gave the _Cryptic_ nine, though. They’re what you might call more or less vaccinated.” He lifted me inboard, where Moorshed and six pirates lay round the _Agatha’s_ hatch. There was a hint of daylight in the cool air. “Where is the old man?” I asked. “Still selling ’em fish, I suppose. He’s a darling! But I wish I could get this filthy paint off my hands. Hallo! What the deuce is the _Cryptic_ signalling?” A pale masthead light winked through the last of the fog. It was answered by a white pencil to the southward. “Destroyer signalling with searchlight.” Pyecroft leaped on the stern-rail. “The first part is private signals. Ah! now she’s Morsing against the fog. ‘P-O-S-T—yes, ‘postpone’—‘D-E-P- (go on)! departure—till—further—orders—which—will—be com (he’s dropped the other m) unicated—verbally. End,’. He swung round. “_Cryptic_ is now answering: ‘Ready—proceed—immediately. What—news—promised—destroyer—flotilla?’” “Hallo!” said Moorshed. “Well, never mind, They’ll come too late.” “Whew! That’s some ’igh-born suckling on the destroyer. Destroyer signals: ‘Care not. All will be known later.’ What merry beehive’s broken loose now?” “What odds! We’ve done our little job.” “Why—why—it’s Two Six Seven!” Here Pyecroft dropped from the rail among the fishy nets and shook the _Agatha_ with heavings. Moorshed cast aside his cigarette, looked over the stern, and fell into his subordinate’s arms. I heard the guggle of engines, the rattle of a little anchor going over not a hundred yards away, a cough, and Morgan’s subdued hail. … So far as I remember, it was Laughton whom I hugged; but the men who hugged me most were Pyecroft and Moorshed, adrift among the fishy nets.