hat's
the speed? Nine and a half?" "Speed!" answers the Old Man. "Hell! This
bunch of hair-springs can't keep out of her own way! Speed? The damned
funnel's so low we can't get draught to burn a cigarette-paper; and
these new pumps they've given her! . . . Well, we might do nine, but
only in fine weather, mind you. Nine knots!"

"You'll have to do better for this convoy, captain. There's not a ship
under nine and a half; but there may be a bunch of eight-knotters going
out in five days."

"Nothing under nine and a half! What? Why, there's _Pearl Shell_ came in
with us. She hasn't a kick above nine. When I was in the old _Collonia_,
we. . . ."

"The _Collonia_? A fine ship, Gad! Were you in her, captain, when she
was strafed? Let's see--Mediterranean, wasn't it?" The captain nods
pleasantly, as if accepting a compliment.

"_Umm!_ Mediterranean--troops--a hell of a job to get them off. Lost
some, though"--regretfully.

The convoy lieutenant turns a good card. "Must be a change to come down
to ten knots, captain, after a crack ship like _Collonia_. What could
she do? Sixteen?"

"Oh no. We could get an eighteen-knot clip out of her--more, if we
wanted!" (If _War Trident's_ speed be low and doubtful, the Old Man can
safely pile the knots on his stricken favourite.) "_She_ was a ship, not
a damned parish-rigged barge like this--a poverty-stricken hulk
that. . . ."

"Yes. I heard about her from Benson, of _War Trumpet_. He sailed in last
convoy. Said he was glad he wasn't appointed here."

"Wasn't appointed here, be damned! Didn't have the chance. Why, that
ship of his isn't in the same class at all. The _Trident_ can steer,
anyway, and when we get things fixed up. . . . She has the hull of a
fine ship. If only we could get a decent funnel on her. . . . Here, I'll
try her at your nine and a half knots! I'll bet _War Trumpet_ can't do a
kick above nine!"

* * * * *

Be it noted that the convoy officers have the wavy gold lace of the
R.N.R. for their rank stripes; plain half-inch ones of the Royal Navy
might have had to let the convoy sail at nine, after all--not knowing
the 'grip' of the 'last ship.'

[Illustration: EVENING: PLYMOUTH HOE]

XIX

CONFERENCE

"A LAUNCH will be sent off at 3 p.m., S.T., to bring masters on shore
for conference. You are requested to bring"--etc. So reads the notice,
and p.m. finds the coxswain of the convoy office picket-boat steaming
and b