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Updated: June 3, 2025
You'll be buckled up under Prawle Point by'mbye." "Do you pretend to know where you are?" the megaphone roared. "Iss, I reckon; but there's no pretence to me!" "O Peter!" said Pyecroft. "Let's hang him at 'is own gaff." I could not see what followed, but Moorshed said: "Take another man with you. If you lose the tow, you're done. I'll slow her down."
The Admiral won't be exactly pleased." Captain Malan spoke very soothingly. Moorshed looked out through the stern door at Two Six Seven. Pyecroft and I, at attention, studied the paintwork opposite. Captain Panke had dropped into his desk chair, and scribbled nervously at a blotting-pad. Just before the tension became unendurable, he looked at his junior for a lead.
Moorshed, not much carin' for further Navy after what Frankie said, certainly threw himself into the part with avidity." "What the dickens are we going to do?" "Speaking as a seaman gunner, I should say we'd wait till the sights came on, an' then fire.
Stern first, an' broadside on! If we don't hit anything too hard, we'll do." "Come on the bridge," said Mr. Moorshed. I saw no bridge, but fell over some sort of conning-tower forward, near which was a wheel. For the next few minutes I was more occupied with cursing my own folly than with the science of navigation.
Likewise on the West Coast, mangrove swampin', an' gettin' the cutter stove in on small an' unlikely bars, an' manufacturin' lies to correspond. What I don't know about Mr. Moorshed is precisely the same gauge as what Mr. Moorshed don't know about me half a millimetre, as you might say.
"There's been a last council o' war of destroyer-captains at the flagship, an' a lot of things 'as come out. To begin with Cryptic and Devolution, Captain Panke and Captain Malan " "Cryptic and Devolution, first-class cruisers," said Mr. Moorshed dreamily. "Go on, Pyecroft."
Morgan, our signaliser, when last seen, was a Dawlish bathing-machine proprietor. Hinchcliffe was naturally a German waiter, and me you behold as a squire of low degree; while yonder Levantine dragoman on the hatch is our Mr. Moorshed. He was the second cutter's snotty my snotty on the Archimandrite two years Cape Station.
I said. "No offal tripes swipes ullage." Mr. Pyecroft entered, in the costume of his calling, with the ham and an assortment of tin dishes, which he dealt out like cards. "I shall take these as my orders," said Mr. Moorshed. "I'm chucking the Service at the end of the year, so it doesn't matter." We cut into the ham under the ill-trimmed lamp, washed it down with whisky, and then smoked.
I've been there. Now, Sir?" I saw the white of his eye turn broad on Mr. Moorshed. The boy dropped his chin over the speaking-tube. "Mr. Hinchcliffe, what's her extreme economical radius?" "Three hundred and forty knots, down to swept bunkers." "Can do," said Moorshed. "By the way, have her revolutions any bearing on her speed, Mr. Hinchcliffe?" "None that I can make out yet, Sir."
"Right-O!" said Moorshed, putting down the wheel, and as we left those scant waters I felt 267 move more freely. A thin cough ran up the speaking-tube. "Well, what is it, Mr. Hinchcliffe?" said Moorshed. "I merely wished to report that she is still continuin' to go, Sir." "Right-O! Can we whack her up to fifteen, d'you think?"
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