there will be no hurried (and improper) finish--the stevedores hurling
their gear ashore at the last minute, slipping down the fender lanyards,
scurrying to a 'pier-head jump,' with the ship moving through the lock!
Some happy chance has brought completion within an hour or two of
tide-time. The mate has opportunity to clear ship effectively, and we
have leisure to plot and plan our sea-route (in anticipation of hasty
chart glances when we get outside) before the pier-master hails
us--"Coom along wi' t' _Massilia_!"

Tugs drag us through the inner gates, pinch and angle our heavy hull in
the basin, and enter us into the locks. The massive gates are swung
across, the sluices at the river-end eased to an outflow and, slowly,
the great lock drains to the river level. The wires of our quay-fasts
tauten and ring out to the tension of the outdraft, as we surge in the
pent water-space and drop with the falling level. Our high bridge view
over the docks and the river is pared in inches by our gradual descent;
the deck falls away under cope of the rough masonry; our outlook is
turned upwards to where the dockmaster signals his orders. The ship
seems suddenly to assume the proportions of a canal-boat in her contrast
with the sea-scarred granite walls and the bulk of the towering gates.

At level with the flood, the piermen heave the outer lock-gates open for
our passage. We back out into the river, bring up, then come ahead,
canting to a rudder pressure that sheers us into the fairway. The river
is thronged by vessels at anchor or under way, docking and undocking on
the top of the tide, and their manoeuvres make work for our pilot. At
easy speed we work a traverse through the press at the dock entrances
and head out to seaward.

[Illustration: DROPPING THE PILOT]

Evening is drawing on as we enter the sea-channels--a quiet close to a
fine summer day. Out on the estuary it is hard to think of war at sea.
Shrimpers are drifting up on the tide, the vivid glow of their tanned
canvas standing over a mirrored reflection in the flood. The deep of the
fairway is scored by passage of coasting steamers, an unending
procession that joins lightship to lightship in a chain of transport.
The sea-reaches look in no way different from the peaceful channels we
have known so long, the buoys and the beacons we pass in our courses
seem absurdly tranquil, as though lacking any knowledge that they are
signposts to a newly treacherous sea. Only fr