on of the routes, and for that the P.C.O. has a thankful
heart. A 'hurrah's nest,' a panic on Exchange, a block at the Bank
crossing, would be feeble comparison to the confusion he might look for
in a combination of dense fog, counter-mandates, and a congested
roadstead, for, even now, the ships to form up the next convoy are
thrashing their way down the coast and (Article XVI of the Rule of the
Road being lightly held by in war-time) may be expected off the
'gateships' before long. To them, as yet, the port is 'closed,' but
every distant wail from seaward sets him anxiously wondering whether it
be a minesweeper signalling a turn to his twin or a distant
deep-waterman, early on the tide, standing in for the land. The sailor's
morning litany--"Who wouldn't sell a farm and go to sea"--is near to him
as he turns up the collar of his oilskin and gives a rough course to
his coxswain. "South, s'west, and ease her when you hear th' Bell buoy.
_British Standard_ first--she's lying close south of it." Turning out,
the picket-boat sets her bows to the grey wall of mist and her wash and
roundel of the screws (that on a clear busy day would scarce be noted)
sound loud and important in the silence of the bay. The coxswain,
cunning tidesman, steers a good course and reduces speed with the first
toll of the buoy. The clamour of its iron tongue seems out of all
relation to the calm sea and the cause is soon revealed. Silently,
closely in line ahead, four grey destroyers break the mist, fleet
swiftly across the arc of vision ahead, and disappear. "Near it," says
the coxswain (and now sounds a blast of _his_ whistle). "Them fellers
ain't 'arf goin' it!" Cautiously he rounds the buoy, noting the gaslight
crown shining yet, though pale and sickly in the growing day. Out now,
in seven fathoms, the lingering inshore fog has given place to a mist,
through which the ships loom up in sombre grey silhouette. Full speed
for a turn or two brings the launch abeam of a huge oil-tanker that,
sharp to the tick of Greenwich Mean Time, already has her Convoy
Distinguishing Flags hoisted and the windlass panting white steam to
raise anchor. A small flag in the rigging assures the P.C.O. that the
pilots have boarded in good time, and it is with somewhat of growing
satisfaction that he hails the bridge and asks the captain to 'carry
on!'

Doubts and hesitancies that may have lingered in the prudent captain's
mind are dispelled by the P.C.O.'s appearance. "