ruling of a 'line ahead,' we are stepping out a trifle wide,
at least we keep in company. The farthest we can see is the thrash of
foam, white in the grey, of _War Ordnance's_ propeller--a good moving
mark, that, though faint, draws the eye by the lead of broken water.
Nearer, we have a steering-guide in her hydroplane, cutting and dancing
under the bows and throwing a sightly feather of spray. The sea is flat
calm, save for our leader's wake--a broad ribbon of troubled water
through which we steer. Our eyes, now limited in range by the fog, seem
to focus readily on trifles; for want of major objects, roving glances
take in driftwood and ship-litter, and turn on minute patches of seaweed
with an interest that a wider range would dissipate. Spurring,
black-crested puffins come at us from under the misty pall, floating
still, as if set in glass, till our bow wash plays out and sets them,
squawking in distress, to an ungainly splutter on the surface, or
dipping swiftly to show white under-feathers and the widening rings of
their dive.

Astern of us, a medley of sound and steering-signals marks the gateway
of the harbour where our followers are striving to drop their pilots and
join in convoy; one loud trumpeter is drawing up at speed and showing,
by the frequency of her whistle-blasts, anxiety to sight our wake. The
lighthouse syren roars a warning of shoal-water out on the landward
beam, a raucous discord of two weird notes. These, with the rare
mournful wail of our leader, are our guiding sounds, but we have sight
now and then of the destroyer escort passing and turning mistily on the
rim of our narrowed vision, like swift sheep-dogs folding the stragglers
of a scattered flock.

The fog, that settled dense and deep as we got under way, shows a little
sign and promise of thinning, a small portent that draws our eyes to the
lift above the funnel. There is no wind, but our smoke-wrack, after
curving with our speed to masthead height, seems turned by light upper
draughts to the eastward. The sun has risen and peers mistily over the
top of the grey curtain that surrounds us. The day is warming up. Pray
fortune, a stout west wind may come out of it all, to clear the muck and
give us one good honest look at one another, when we are due for that
'six-point' turn to the south'ard!

To keep in station on our pacemaker, we call for constant alterations in
the speed--a range of revolutions that rattles up scale and down, like
fir