whap!_ The cursed thing is falling
still. 'Twenty-nine owe two--half an inch since ten o'clock! Whatever
can be behind all this? That damn glass was never right, anyway!'

[Illustration: THE BOWS OF THE _KASHMIR_ DAMAGED BY COLLISION]

Drumming of the wireless-cabin telephone sounds out, and we listen to a
brief account of Poldhu's war warning. An S.O.S. has been heard, but a
shore station has accepted it. (They can identify the ship--might be the
harping of a Fritz.) There is a long code message through, and the
quartermaster brings it--a jumble of helplessly ugly consonants that
looks as though the German Fleet, at last, is out--but resolves (after a
wearisome cryptic wrestle) to back-chat that has little of interest for
us. Poldhu has the reports of the day--mines and derelicts, wreckage,
the patrols, and enemy submarines in the channels. Chart work for a
while. The wrecks and the derelicts are figured and placed, and we dally
with the subs, plotting and measuring to find a clue to their movements.
'Fifteen hours at six, and ten to come or go! _Mmm!_ That 'll be the
same swine working to the nor'east. Hope he makes a good course into the
minefield! This one is solo--and that! A ghastly bunch, anyway!' We
project a line of our course, but hesitate at position. 'Not one decent
observation in the last three days. Only a muggy guess at a horizon.
Dead-reckoning? Of course, there is our dead-reckoning, but--but--wonder
where the commodore got his position from? Must have added on th' day of
th' month, or fingers and toes or something! Damned if we can see how,
at twelve knots, we could be where----'

The outspread chart, glaring white under the electric light, with a maze
of heights and soundings, grows strangely indistinct, and it calls for
an effort to set the counts and figures in their places. We realize that
wandering thought and a warm chart-room are not the combination for
wakefulness. So, on deck again, to steady up at the doorway and wonder
why the night has become suddenly as hellish black as the pit!

The second officer has found his composure at the bottom of a cup of
steaming coffee, and seems mildly astonished that we are unable to pick
up _Neleus_ in the darkness ahead. "Quite plain, sir, when these squalls
pass. A bit murky while they blow over, but--see her clear enough, sir.
Reduced two revolutions, and keeping good station on her at that!"
Somewhat slowly (for we have been afoot since six yesterday m