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Updated: May 11, 2025
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."
At this point I reclined without shame on Mr. Pyecroft's bosom, supported by his quivering arm. "Well?" said Moorshed, scowling into the darkness, as 267's bows snapped at the shore seas of the broader Channel, and we swayed together. "'You'd better go on, says Commander Fassett, 'an' do what you're told to do. I don't envy Hignett if he has to dry-nurse the Gnome's commander.
I coiled down on an iron-hard horse-hair pillow next the quivering steel wall to acquire that habit. The sea, sliding over 267's skin, worried me with importunate, half-caught confidences. It drummed tackily to gather my attention, coughed, spat, cleared its throat, and, on the eve of that portentous communication, retired up stage as a multitude whispering.
It cleared the trouble from my body, and set my soul dancing to 267's heel and toe across the northerly set of the waves such waves as I had often watched contemptuously from the deck of a ten-thousand-ton liner. They shouldered our little hull sideways and passed, scalloped, and splayed out, toward the coast, carrying our white wake in loops along their hollow backs.
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