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Updated: June 3, 2025
"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 hanamerin' 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.
Leather-topped lockers ran along either side; a swinging table, with tray and lamp above, occupied the centre. Other furniture there was none. "You can't shave here, of course. We don't wash, and, as a rule, we eat with our fingers when we're at sea. D'you mind?" Mr. Moorshed, black-haired, black-browed, sallow-complexioned, looked me over from head to foot and grinned.
We passed the sentry between white enamelled walls of speckless small arms, and since that Royal Marine Light infantryman was visibly suffocating from curiosity, I winked at him. We entered the chintz-adorned, photo-speckled, brass- fendered, tile-stoved main cabin. Moorshed, with a ruler, was demonstrating before the frame-plan of H.M.S. Cryptic.
Carteret-Jones was your commandin' officer, an' you had your reputation as a second in command for the first time, I says, well knowin' it was his first command of a flotilla, 'what 'ud you do, Sir? That gouged 'is unprotected ends open clear back to the citadel." "What did he say?" Moorshed jerked over is shoulder. "If you were Mr.
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. 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!
"Then a sno midshipman Moorshed was is name come up an' says somethin' in a low voice. It fetches the old man. "'You'll oblige me, 'e says, 'by takin' the wardroom poultry for that. I've ear-marked every fowl we've shipped at Madeira, so there can't be any possible mistake. M'rover, 'e says, 'tell 'em if they spill one drop of blood on the deck, he says, 'they'll not be extenuated, but hung.
And while he delivered himself deeper and more deeply into our hands, I saw Captain Malan wince. He was watching Moorshed's eye. "I belong to Blue Fleet, Sir. I command Number Two Six Seven," said Moorshed, and Captain Planke was dumb. "Have you such a thing as a frame- plan of the Cryptic aboard?" He spoke with winning politeness as he opened a small and neatly folded paper. "I have, sir."
But they are," said Pyecroft. He was out on the turtle-backed bows of her; Moorshed was at the wheel, and another man worked the whistle. "This fog is the best thing could ha' happened to us," said Moorshed. "It gives us our chance to run in on the quiet.... Hal-lo!" A cracked bell rang.
"The Gnome Carteret-Jones from Portsmouth, with orders mm mm Stiletto," Moorshed answered through the megaphone in a high, whining voice, rather like a chaplain's. "Who?" was the answer. "Carter et Jones." "Oh, Lord!" There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, "It's Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!"
Between you an' me an' Frankie, we are the Gnome, now in the Fleet Reserve at Pompey Portsmouth, I should say." "The first sea will carry it all away," said Moorshed, leaning gloomily outboard, "but it will do for the present." "We've a lot of prima facie evidence about us," Mr. Pyecroft went on. "A first-class torpedo boat sits lower in the water than a destroyer.
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