quires little in the way of cooking utensils. We were still having our
luncheon below when we dived again, so for the first time in my life I
found myself having a meal under the sea.

It was hours afterwards that we slipped into the darkened harbour and
found the mother ship, where the officers enjoy some of the real
comforts of life.

"Have a Pandora cocktail?" asked my captain.

We imbibed joyfully. The commander then changed his clothes, and we sat
down to dinner--a late dinner, most of the other members of the mess
having finished half an hour before.

And if you ask me about sensations while under the water, again I must
confess that I was too busy looking and learning to experience anything
but a fear that I might omit something of importance during the time the
captain was getting ready for his target. Being under the sea, however,
gave me a thrill felt long afterwards, and I left knowing something of
the hardships that England's sea dogs suffer while guarding their island
kingdom.

XI. LIFE IN A LIGHTHOUSE

The old man led the way to the sturdy stone structure on top of which
were the great horns which sound the warning in foggy weather to ships
at sea. He was proud of the lighthouse, of which he was the principal
keeper; and just before he started to explain to me the wonders of the
compressed-air engines, he remarked:--

"First, you must know that a lighthouse-keeper's job is to watch for a
fog."

"What's your name?" I asked. He was the first real lighthouse-keeper I
had met.

The lighthouseman looked at me and then at one of the coast-watchers. He
was a slender man of about sixty years, who, I had been told, was
enjoying the work he had set out to do long, long before there was a
thought of a great war.

"T. G. Cutting," he replied, "the P.K. here."

It was on the western Cornish coast, where, as in other places in and
off English shores, the lighthouses, war or no war, from sunset to
sunrise cut the darkness with their long beams of whiteness and, when
necessary, sound the foghorn. You do not see any young men who are not
in khaki or navy blue, and the old men are wonders, with their
binoculars and telescopes. Mr. Cutting had been within sound of the sea
ever since he was born. First, he had seen service on a lighthouse on
the rocks, as they say, and from the rocks he graduated to a land job,
and thence back to the rocks, and again on to the land. We read stories
of the lighthouse-kee