m of relief. Why
not? Why not take a relief? The chief officer is as good a man as the
master. Why not let him run the bus for a spell? Oh, just--just--just a
rotten way we have of doing! In the Navy they make no bones about
turning over to their juniors; why should we make it so hard for our--
"_Says it is hazy, sir! Told me to let you know he hasn't seen any of
the ships for over an hour!_"

Whatever is the man talking about! "_Ships?_" What ships? "_An hour?_"

The quartermaster, in storm-rig of dripping oilskin, stands sheepish in
the doorway. "Aff-past-three, sir," he says.

"_Htt!_" In drowsy mood we don oilskin and sea-boots. Overhead the rain
is drumming, heavy and persistent, on the deck. A glance at the
barometer shows an upward spring. _Tip, tip, tip_--a good glass, that!
Well-balanced! The Second is apologetic, almost as though his was the
hand that had accidentally turned the tap. "Been like this for over an
hour, sir! Was always hoping it would pass off, but there has been no
sign of clearing. Would have called you sooner, but thought it would
lift. I've kept her steady at average revolutions for the last eight
hours' run--seven-three. Haven't seen a thing since shortly after you
went below." A query brings answer that the fog-buoy has been streamed
and gun's crew cautioned to a sharp look-out astern. Not that there is
great need; our sailing experience has been that A---- will drop astern
when 'the gas is turned down!'

The wind has fallen and has hauled to south. It is black dark, with a
heavy continuous downpour of rain. The air is milder, and the sea around
has a glow of luminous milky patches. So, it is to be southerly
weatherly for making the land! It might be worse! At least, this thrash
of heavy rain will 'batten hatches' on a rise of the sea, and make a
good parade-ground for our destroyer escort when they join company. We
should be able to shove along at better speed when daylight comes. The
mist or the haze or whatever combination it may be, is puzzling. From
the outlook it is not easy to gauge the range of our vision. Near us the
wash from our bows is sharply defined by phosphorescence in the broken
water, a white scum churns and curls alongside, brightening suddenly in
patches as though our passage had set spark to the fringe. Outboard the
open sea merges away into the gloomy sky with no horizon, no ruling of a
division. We seem to be steaming into a vertical face of vapour. There
is no so