ised
better means to meet the dangers of natural forces. But it is always the
same problem. The youngsters who were growing up at sea at the end of my
service are commanding ships now. At least I have heard of some of them
who do. And whatever the shape and power of their ships the character of
the duty remains the same. A mine or a torpedo that strikes your ship is
not so very different from a sharp, uncharted rock tearing her life out
of her in another way. At a greater cost of vital energy, under the well-
nigh intolerable stress of vigilance and resolution, they are doing
steadily the work of their professional forefathers in the midst of
multiplied dangers. They go to and fro across the oceans on their
everlasting task: the same men, the same stout hearts, the same fidelity
to an exacting tradition created by simple toilers who in their time knew
how to live and die at sea.

Allowed to share in this work and in this tradition for something like
twenty years, I am bold enough to think that perhaps I am not altogether
unworthy to speak of it. It was the sphere not only of my activity but,
I may safely say, also of my affections; but after such a close
connection it is very difficult to avoid bringing in one's own
personality. Without looking at all at the aspects of the Labour
problem, I can safely affirm that I have never, never seen British seamen
refuse any risk, any exertion, any effort of spirit or body up to the
extremest demands of their calling. Years ago--it seems ages ago--I have
seen the crew of a British ship fight the fire in the cargo for a whole
sleepless week and then, with her decks blown up, I have seen them still
continue the fight to save the floating shell. And at last I have seen
them refuse to be taken off by a vessel standing by, and this only in
order "to see the last of our ship," at the word, at the simple word, of
a man who commanded them, a worthy soul indeed, but of no heroic aspect.
I have seen that. I have shared their days in small boats. Hard days.
Ages ago. And now let me mention a story of to-day.

I will try to relate it here mainly in the words of the chief engineer of
a certain steamship which, after bunkering, left Lerwick, bound for
Iceland. The weather was cold, the sea pretty rough, with a stiff head
wind. All went well till next day, about 1.30 p.m., then the captain
sighted a suspicious object far away to starboard. Speed was increased
at once to close in