it was an old suit, and England didn't declare war
every day. . . .

The following night they left in an ancient old cargo boat, skippered
by the type of man who has since made our mercantile marine the glory
of the world. His job was to get his peculiarly odoriferous cargo home
to his owners as soon as possible; beyond that he either failed or
refused to look. The entire German Navy might have been waiting
outside for all he cared; he merely consumed a little more whisky, and
conducted morning prayers. He would give them no assurance; they went
at their own risk, but, if the boat got there, he would land them at
Gibraltar. And having thought the matter over, and realised that
firstly a journey through Italy might result in their being kept as
prisoners of war; secondly, that a journey through Spain would probably
take a fortnight at least; and thirdly, that any way they could do
neither as they could get no money, Draycott and his friends embarked
with the patent manure, and watched the lights of Marseilles growing
fainter and fainter till they dropped below the horizon astern.

It was an uneventful voyage, and never for one hour after the first day
were they out of sight of land. It was the only concession the skipper
would make for the safety of his boat; and so they jogged along at a
peaceful ten knots and watched the sun set each evening in a blaze of
golden glory over the rocky coast of Spain. For the first time since
leaving England a week before, they were able to think. In the rush to
Paris, in the horse-box to Marseilles, in Marseilles itself, they had
been too busy. Besides, they were outsiders. . . .

Now, England was in it; the thing which they had known in their hearts
was coming, ever since a kindly senior subaltern had first taken it
upon himself to shape their destinies, had actually come. And
bitterest thought of all--_they_ were not there.

"It can't last more than three months." A pessimistic garrison gunner
from Malta, who was playing patience, cheated savagely. "I tell you no
European country could stand it." Undoubtedly the fatuous drivel of
certain writers had influenced even the Army itself. "Peace will be
declared before Christmas. An' I'll have sat on that cursed island,
and whenever I see a ship I'd like to poop at, the searchlight will go
out, an' I'll be bitten by sand flies." He glared morosely at
Draycott; until, suddenly, a dawning look of joy spread over his face.
"I