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I had followed the clear precision of each word with a dumb amazement which seemed to leave my mind abnormally clear. I saw Captain Malan's eye turn from Moorshed and seek that of the Cryptic's commander. And he telegraphed as clearly as Moorshed was speaking: "My dear friend and brother officer, I know Panke; you know Panke; we know Panke good little Panke!
She's answerin': 'You ought to know. Examine own paintwork. Oh, Lord! they're both on to it now. This is balm. This is beginning to be balm. I forgive you, Morgan!" Two frantic pipes twittered. From either cruiser a whaler dropped into the water and madly rowed round the ship: as a gay-coloured hoist rose to the Cryptic's yardarm: "Destroyer will close at once. Wish to speak by semaphore."
"Hell!" said the first lieutenant, and fled away. The Cryptic's boat was already at that cruiser's side, and semaphores flicked zealously from ship to ship. We floated, a minute speck, between the two hulls, while the pipes went for the captain's galley on the Devolution. "That's all right," said Moorshed. "Wait till the gangway's down and then board her decently.
Come along!" By this time I was long past even hysteria. I remember Pyecroft's bending back, the surge of the driven dinghy, a knot of amazed faces as we skimmed the Cryptic's ram, and the dropped jaw of the midshipman in her whaler when we barged fairly into him. "Mind my paint!" he yelled. "You mind mine, snotty," said Moorshed.
"If you take these glasses, you'll get the general run o' last night's vaccination," said Pyecroft. "Each one represents a torpedo got 'ome, as you might say." I saw on the Cryptic's port side, as she lay half a mile away across the glassy water, four neat white squares in outline, a white blur in the centre. "There are five more to starboard. 'Ere's the original!"
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