cards had continued till late the preceding night few but the ship's
officers saw the pin-point of light marking the westward sentinel of the
Old World.

Then on October 14th fishing smacks again appeared and the grey coast of
Cornwall hove in sight, and by noon we could distinguish buildings along
the cliffs.

Passing the Eddystone our course was altered and all hopes of landing at
Southampton vanished. Captain H----r was much excited. After nineteen
years he was returning to his native town--Plymouth. To a running fire
of his explanations we passed up the Sound to the Hamoaze. A tugboat,
looking ridiculously small against the gigantic liner ahead, now took
us in tow, and the throbbing of the ship's screw stopped. The cessation
of this pulse added a sombre touch to our voices; we were nearing the
end of the voyage, and in another day would know the ship no more.

Thus we glided slowly past the old wooden cruisers now used as training
ships, and from their crowded riggings came shrill treble cheers. To the
piping of the young cadets' voices was added the screaming of sirens and
the tooting of many whistles. Halyards on all sides of us broke out into
brilliant bunting and semaphores wagged with a madness that even Lyte
could not translate.

The clarion notes of the mess bugle called us from the decks to other
duties, and there between the soup and the fish we heard the hoarse
rattle of the anchor chain as we found our moorings.

Captain H----r, seizing the opportunity, rose, and in the capacity of an
old Plymothian gave us greeting.

Such was our welcome to England.

In the morning we looked out and saw rows and rows of chimney pots,
impressive in their similarity.

Then later we read an editorial in _The Times_ describing us as
pioneers and backwoodsmen. This provoked much comment, but the writer
for one was not greatly distressed, for he had been born within sound of
the shrill of a sawmill, and the perfume of cedar is still sweeter to
his nostrils than the costly unguents of Araby.

CHAPTER VI

IN ENGLAND

Our stay in England was marred by the heaviest rainfall of many years,
and Salisbury Plain, where we were quartered all winter, had the
reputation of being the muddiest spot in the world until we struck
Flanders; and even now there are patriots who maintain that the "Plain"
holds the championship.

But these were not our first impressions of the Downs. It is hard yet to
reconcile the mud in