the dawn, he surveyed the unsavoury mixture on
the floor with his nose wrinkled and an expression of intense disgust
on his face. But the sight of the broken cup reminded him of
something, and reaching his hand underneath the cushion he extracted a
vacuum flask, applied it to his lips, and swallowed what remained of
the cocoa inside it. He was hungry, poor wight, for his dinner the
night before had consisted of two corned-beef sandwiches and a biscuit.
Next, with a little sigh of satisfaction, he produced a pipe, tobacco,
and matches from an inner pocket and lit up, examined the chart with
the ship's track marked upon it, and glanced at the aneroid on the
bulkhead and noticed it was rising slowly.

Two minutes later, with his pipe bowl carefully inverted, he clambered
up the iron ladder to the bridge.

"Hail, smiling morn!" he remarked sarcastically, ducking his head as a
sheet of spray came driving over the forecastle and across the bridge.
"Well, 'Sub,' how goes it?"

"Pretty rotten, sir," answered the sub-lieutenant, whose watch it was.
"The wind shows no signs of going down, but I think the sea's a little
less than it was. We're not bumping quite so badly as we were."

* * * * *

The motion certainly was less violent, and after looking for a moment
at the angry sea and the grey, cloud-wrapped sky streaked with its
wisps of flying white scud, the skipper nodded slowly. "You're right,"
he said. "It has gone down a bit. We're beginning to feel the lee of
the land. Work her up gradually to twelve knots and see how she takes
it."

The "Sub" did so, and though the increase in speed brought heavier
spray and more of it, the movement of the ship no longer synchronised
with the period of the waves, and she became steadier.

Before long the sea had gone down even more and the speed was increased
to twenty knots. Then, on the grey horizon ahead, appeared the smoke
of many steamers, and a quarter of an hour later the destroyer was
threading her way through a sea-lane so densely populated with shipping
that it reminded one of dodging the traffic in Piccadilly.

The next thing which hove in sight was a red-painted lightship, and
half an hour later the destroyer, her funnels white with dried salt,
was steaming into the harbour where the remainder of the flotilla were
lying. They, having escaped the really bad weather, had arrived the
evening before, and one of them made a facetious signa