“Hard astern, both engines!”

Again there was a clangor under hatches, and the suffering bearings shrieked.  The Puncher dropped her stern two feet or so, and the foam boiled brown round her propellers.  The shock of the reversal pitched the pilot up against the forward rail, where he clung like a drowning man.

“For the love o’ God, sah!  Captain; sah, we’ve struck!  Ah told you so; Ah said—­”

“And a half-three!” chanted Joe Byng.

“Stop her!  Starboard engine ahead!  Port engine ahead!  Ease your helm!  Meet her!  Half speed ahead!”

The Puncher pitched and rolled, kicking at the following monsoon that thundered at her counter and tossing up the foam that seethed about her bow.  She trembled from end to end, as if the pounding of the water hurt her.

“Helm amidships!” ordered the commander suddenly.

“’Midships, sir!”

“Full speed ahead, both engines!”

The Puncher leaped, as all destroyers do the second day they are loosed.  She sliced through the storm straight for the coral beach beyond the bar, shaking her graceful shoulders free of the sticky spray—­reeling, rolling, thugging, kicking, bucking through the welter to where quiet water waited and the ever-lasting, utterly unrighteous stink of sun-baked Arab beaches.  As each tremendous breaker thundered on her stern each time she lifted to the underswell, the pilot vowed that she had struck, rolling his eyes and calling two different deities to witness that none of it was any fault of his.

“Thar’s no water, sah—­no water, Captain, sah—­not one drop!  You’ve piled up you-ah ship!  Ah told you so; Ah said—­”

“By the deep—­four!”

“And a half-four!”

“By the mark—­five!”

The Puncher was across the bar, gliding through muddy water on an even keel and giving the lie direct to him whose fee was ten pounds English.  The pilot drew a talisman of some kind from underneath the least torn portion of his shirt, and to the commander’s amazement kissed it.  It is not often that a woolly headed, or any other, native of the East kisses either folk or things.  But the commander was too busy at the moment to ask questions.

“Have your starboard anchor ready!” he commanded, making mental notes.

“Ready, sir!”

The glittering, wet, wind-blown beach and the little estuary slid by like a painted panorama smelling of all the evil in the world as the Puncher eased her helm a time or two seeking a comfortable berth with Joe Byng’s chanted aid.

“Let go twenty fathoms!”

The pilot sighed relief as the starboard anchor splashed into the water and the cable roared after it through the hawse pipe.

“What nationality are you?” asked the commander, watching the Puncher swing and gaging distances, but sparing one eye now for his unwelcome but official guest.

“Me, sah?”