r a lady, so
she hopped downstairs and got in. You know how she makes three little
jumps to it--first, on to the chair; then on the flap-table, and then
up on the pillow. When the show was over, there she was as usual."

"Was she glad to see her master?"

"_Ra-ather._ Arabella was the bold, gay lady-dog _then_!"

Now Arabella is between nine and eleven and a half inches long.

"Does the Hun run to pets at all?"

"I shouldn't say so. He's an unsympathetic felon--the Hun. But he
might cherish a dachshund or so. We never picked up any ships' pets
off him, and I'm sure we should if there had been."

That I believed as implicitly as the tale of a destroyer attack some
months ago, the object of which was to flush Zeppelins. It succeeded,
for the flotilla was attacked by several. Right in the middle of the
flurry, a destroyer asked permission to stop and lower dinghy to pick
up ship's dog which had fallen overboard. Permission was granted, and
the dog was duly rescued. "Lord knows what the Hun made of it," said
my informant. "He was rumbling round, dropping bombs; and the dinghy
was digging out for all she was worth, and the Dog-Fiend was swimming
for Dunkirk. It must have looked rather mad from above. But they
saved the Dog-Fiend, and then everybody swore he was a German spy in
disguise."

THE FIGHT

"And--about this Jutland fight?" I hinted, not for the first time.

"Oh, that was just a fight. There was more of it than any other fight,
I suppose, but I expect all modern naval actions must be pretty much
the same."

"But what does one _do_--how does one feel?" I insisted, though I knew
it was hopeless.

"One does one's job. Things are happening all the time. A man may be
right under your nose one minute--serving a gun or something--and the
next minute he isn't there."

"And one notices that at the time?"

"Yes. But there's no time to keep _on_ noticing it. You've got to
carry on somehow or other, or your show stops. I tell you what one
_does_ notice, though. If one goes below for anything, or has to pass
through a flat somewhere, and one sees the old wardroom clock ticking,
or a photograph pinned up, or anything of that sort, one notices
_that_. Oh yes, and there was another thing--the way a ship seemed to
blow up if you were far off her. You'd see a glare, then a blaze, and
then the smoke--miles high, lifting quite slowly. Then you'd get the
row and the jar of it--just like bumping over submarines. Then, a