"This is going to be a short business, sir, unless we get busy."
"I know," said Mottin. "Case of four anchors and wish for the day. Sea anchor indicated, and mighty quick too."...
An hour later it was pitch-dark, and a semi-waterlogged seaplane drifted south, head to sea, bucketing her nose into the lop. Two figures crouched together in the body of her, baling mechanically. On the upper plane an electric torch glowed brightly, pointing westward. The figures exchanged disjointed sentences as they baled, and occasionally one of them would stretch his head up for a glance round for possible passing lights.
"Cheer up, Sub!" said Mottin. "Your teeth are chattering like the deuce. Bale harder and get warm."
"It's not the cold, it's the weather that's doing me in, sir. I'm so damned sea-sick."
"Yes, it's a filthy motion, but she's steadier than she was. 'Fraid she's sinking."
The Sub-Lieutenant ceased baling for a moment and looked into his senior's face, dimly lit by the reflection from the torch overhead. "Do you know, sir," he said, "I don't feel as bucked as I did? I believe I've got half-way to cold feet about the show."
"Do you know, Sub"—Mottin copied the hesitating voice—"I've had cold feet the whole blinkin' time? If it wasn't for one thing I keep thinking of, I'd be properly howling about it."
"And what's that, sir?"
"D'you remember a line of Kipling's in that 'Widow of sleepy Chester' poem? It's about 'Fifty file of Burmans to open him Heaven's gate.' Well, that's keeping me cheered up."