vitality.

A heavy grey motor rushes along, splashing the walkers. Beside the
driver is a pile of luggage. Inside, secure behind plate glass from
any weather, sits a general. Another motor follows and still others.
British staff officers and military attaches from allied nations, the
privileged classes of the war, sweep by while humbler men splash and
stumble.

But in front of the gangway of the leave boat, as at the gates of
Paradise, there is no distinction of persons. The mean man and the
mighty find the same treatment there. There comes a moment when the
car must be left, when crossed sword and baton on the shoulder straps
avail their wearer no more than a single star.

A sailor, relentless as Rhadamanthus, stands on the gangway and bars
the way to the shelter of the ship. No one--so the order has gone
forth--is to be allowed on board before 9 o'clock. There is shelter a
few yards behind, a shed. A few seek it. I prefer to stand, with
other early comers, in a cluster round the end of the gangway,
determined, though we wait hours, to be among the first on board.

The crowd grows denser as time goes on. The Canadian sister, alert
and competent, secures a seat on the rail of a disused gangway and
plants two neat feet on the rail opposite. An Australian captain,
gallant amid extreme adversity, offers the spare waterproof he
carries to the shivering V.A.D. I find myself wedged tight against a
general. He is elderly, grizzled, and looks fierce; but he accepts a
light for his cigarette from the bowl of my pipe. It was his only
chance of getting a light then and there. Now and then some one asks
a neighbour whether it is likely that the boat will start on such a
day.

A depressed major on the outskirts of the crowd says that he has it
on the best authority that the port is closed and that there will be
no sailings for a week. The news travels from mouth to mouth, but no
one stirs. There is a horrid possibility that it may be true;
but--well, most men know the reputation of that "best authority." He
is the kind of liar of whose fate St. John speaks vigorously in the
last chapter but one of his Apocalypse.

The ship rises slowly higher and higher, for the tide is flowing. The
gangway grows steeper. From time to time two sailors shift it
slightly, retying the ropes which fasten it to the ship's rail. The
men on the quay watch the manoeuvre hopefully.

At 9 o'clock an officer appears on the outside fringe of the crowd