embering the horrible fate of the
seasick sailor, I crouched against the bulwark. With an effort,
however, the man mastered himself. I was relieved to see an enigmatic
smile overspread his countenance.

"It is plain," he said, in the voice of one patiently rebuking a
child, "that you do not know what a German airship can do. Ah! ha!
There goes Bristol!" he added, as further detonations smote upon our
ears.

And so the hideous carnage proceeded. Grasmere, Aberystwith,
Stratford-on-Avon, Freshwater Bay and the Lizard--with dreadful
precision these teeming hives of English industry were laid waste,
incinerated, scattered to the winds in fine impalpable dust. I thought
sadly of the brave men in khaki that were being cut off by the
thousand in their prime (for the gallant Captain had taken the utmost
precaution not to drop any of his bombs in the neighbourhood of
non-combatants). But, after all, I mused, they will soon be replaced
by intelligent Germans, a blessing that civilization will not be slow
to appreciate.

At this moment the Captain approached me with an object in his hand.
"You neutrals," he said, "have been deceived before now by the
ridiculous reports disseminated by our enemies as to the results of
these raids. But here is the proof." He then explained to me that to
every Zeppelin was attached a large sinker or plummet, which was
covered with grease and lowered from a drum to a few yards above the
spot where the bomb was destined to fall. To this plummet adhered
fragments of various objects, animate or other, which the explosion of
the missile hurled into the air. Such a fragment the Captain was now
extending for my observation. I admitted that to my uninitiated eye it
closely resembled a portion of the outer surface of a cow or some
kindred animal. "You are indeed ignorant," said my host, smiling in
the same enigmatic way. "The object is undoubtedly a fragment of the
propeller shaft of a large vessel, which satisfies me that at Swanage,
where our last bomb was dropped, a portion of the High Seas Fleet was
anchored. And as a matter of fact," he added, producing a small dark
object from his pocket, "here is a part of Sir JOHN JELLICOE'S
necktie. Notice how precisely it tallies with the descriptions
furnished by our secret agents, one of whom is actually engaged about
the Admiral's person disguised as a pastry-cook."

Here, then, was the proof. One could not doubt the evidence of one's
senses. But mine had b