ich would
mean thousands. Trying to count them is like trying to count the bees
in the garden. You cannot keep your eye on the individual bees. You
are bound to count some twice, so busy are their manoeuvres.

"Don't you worry, great ladies!" you imagined the destroyers were
saying to the battleships. "We will clear the road. We will keep watch
against snipers and assassins."

"And if any knocks are coming, we will take them for you, great
ladies!" said the cruisers. "If one of us went down, the loss would not
be great. Keep your big guns safe to beat other battleships into
scrap."

For you may be sure that Fritz was on the watch in the open. He
always is, like the highwayman hiding behind a hedge and envying
people who have comfortable beds. Probably from a distance he had
a peep through his periscope at the Grand Fleet before the approach
of the policeman destroyers made him duck beneath the water; and
probably he tried to count the number of ships and identify their
classes in order to take the information home to Kiel. Besides, he
always has his fingers crossed. He hopes that some day he may get
a shot at something more warlike than a merchant steamer or an
auxiliary; only that prospect becomes poorer as life for him grows
harder. Except a miracle happened, the steaming fleet, with its
cordons of destroyers, is as safe from him as from any other kind of
fish.

The harbour which is the fleet's home is landlocked by low hills. There
is an eclipse of the sun by the smoke from the ships getting under
way; streaming, soaring columns of smoke on the move rise above
the skyline from the funnels of the battleships before they appear
around a bend. Indefinite masses as yet they are, under their night-
black plumes. Each ship seems too immense to respond to any will
except its own. But there is something automatic in the regularity with
which, one after another, they take the bend, as if a stop watch had
been held on twenty thousand tons of steel for a second's variation.
As they approach they become more distinct and, showing less
smoke, there seems less effort. Their motive-power seems inherent,
perpetual.

There is some sea running outside the entrance, enough to make a
destroyer roll. But the battleships disdain any notice of its existence. It
is no more to them than a ripple of dust to a motor truck. They plough
through it.

Though you were within twenty yards of them you would feel quite
safe. An express train