o one accustomed to single-ship
work the whole is mildly bewildering, and one readily understands that
sailing a merchant convoy calls for more than the simple word of
command.

"_War Trident_, nine knots," reads the junior, from a signal slip.
"_Marmion_, a doubtful starter--steering-gear disabled. _Pearl Shell_,
three stokehold hands short."

"_Trident_ only nine! That be damned for a yarn!" says his senior,
reaching for the slip. "Nine will reduce the speed of the whole convoy a
knot. She must be good for more--new ship, isn't she?"

"Yes. One of these new standards--built for eleven knots and chocked up
afterwards with fancy gear and 'gadjets' to rob the boilers."

"Lemme see--nine knots"--turning to the pages of a tide-book, the convoy
officer makes a rough sum of it. "High water at Oysterpool--so--arrived
here--distance--and seventy-one. Why, he's come on from Oysterpool at
ten, no less, and that's not allowing for the zigzag either!"

The lieutenant looks round for his cap. Clearly there is a definite
'drill' for captains who come on from Oysterpool at ten and declare
their speed as nine, and he is ready when the P.C.O. passes orders. "All
right. You go off and see the captain. Try to get him to spring at least
half a knot. I expect he's allowing a bit for 'coming up,' and going
easy till he knows his new ship. . . . I'll 'phone _Pearl Shell's_
agents and warn 'em to hustle round for firemen. _Marmion?_ Yes. Board
_Marmion_ on your way back. Wants ten hours--she should be able to keep
her sailing." A year agone there would have been but moderate and
passive interest in the varying troubles of the ships and their crews,
but much water has flowed over the Red Ensign since then, and we are
learning.

The convoy lieutenant goes down a winding path to the boat-slip and
boards his launch to set off for the Roads. The morning, that broke fair
and unclouded, has turned grey; a damp sea-mist is wandering over the
bay in thin wraiths and feathers, but sunlight on the brown of the
distant hills promises a clearing as the day draws on. Fishing-smacks,
delayed by want of wind, are creeping in to the market steps under sweep
of their long oars, and their lazy canvas rustles, and the booms and
sheet-blocks creak as the wash of the picket-launch sets them swaying.
In from the sea channels, with their sweeps still wet and glistening,
come the _Agnes Whitwell_, _Fortuna_, the _Dieudonne_, and _Brother
Fred_, each with a Whi