the less, from
time to time, she heard a mine grate, or tinkle, or jar (I could not
arrive at the precise note it strikes, but they say it is unpleasant)
on her plates. Sometimes she would be free of them for a long while,
and began to hope she was clear. At other times they were numerous,
but when at last she seemed to have worried out of the danger zone
lieutenant and sub together left the bridge for a cup of tea. ("In
those days we took mines very seriously, you know.") As they were in
act to drink, they heard the hateful sound again just outside the
wardroom. Both put their cups down with extreme care, little fingers
extended ("We felt as if they might blow up, too"), and tip-toed on
deck, where they met the foc'sle also on tip-toe. They pulled
themselves together, and asked severely what the foc'sle thought it
was doing. "Beg pardon, sir, but there's another of those blighters
tap-tapping alongside, our end." They all waited and listened to their
common coffin being nailed by Death himself. But the things bumped
away. At this point they thought it only decent to invite the rescued
skipper, warm and blanketed in one of their bunks, to step up and do
any further perishing in the open.

"No, thank you," said he. "Last time I was blown up in my bunk, too.
That was all right. So I think, now, too, I stay in my bunk here. It
is cold upstairs."

Somehow or other they got out of the mess after all. "Yes, we used to
take mines awfully seriously in those days. One comfort is, Fritz'll
take them seriously when he comes out. Fritz don't like mines."

"Who does?" I wanted to know.

"If you'd been here a little while ago, you'd seen a Commander comin'
in with a big 'un slung under his counter. He brought the beastly
thing in to analyse. The rest of his squadron followed at two-knot
intervals, and everything in harbour that had steam up scattered."

THE ADMIRABLE COMMANDER

Presently I had the honour to meet a Lieutenant-Commander-Admiral who
had retired from the service, but, like others, had turned out again at
the first flash of the guns, and now commands--he who had great ships
erupting at his least signal--a squadron of trawlers for the protection
of the Dogger Bank Fleet. At present prices--let alone the chance of the
paying submarine--men would fish in much warmer places. His flagship
was once a multi-millionaire's private yacht. In her mixture of stark,
carpetless, curtainless, carbolised present, with voluptuous