n offer is a pious hope and the promise that he will
have tugs on hand to help us out. "No use 'making almanacks' till the
time comes," says our Nestor (a stout old greybeard who has been twice
torpedoed). "We shall snake into column all right, and, anyhow, we're
all bound the same way!" "What about towing one another out?" suggests a
junior, and, the matter having been brought to jest, we leave it at
that.

The caretaker jangles his keys and, collecting our 'pictures,' we go out
to the quayside, where thin rain and a mist shroud the harbour basin,
and the dock warehouses loom up like tall clippers under sail. The
coxswain comes, clamping in heavy sea-boots and an oilskin, to tell that
the launch is at the steps, ready to take us off. Two of us have
business to conclude with our agent, and remain on the jetty to see our
fellows crowd into shelter of the hood and the launch back out. We call
cheerfully, one to another, that we shall meet at Bahia or New York or
Calcutta or Miramichi, and the mist takes them.

Up the ancient cobbled street we come on an old church and, the rain
increasing to a torrent, we shelter at the porch. Who knows, curiosity
perhaps, urges us farther and we step quietly down-level to the old
stone-flagged nave. The light is failing, and the tombs and monuments
are dim and austere, the inscriptions faint and difficult to read. A
line of Drakes lie buried here, and tablets to the memory of old
sea-captains (whose bones may lie where tide is) are on the walls. A
sculptured medallion of ships on the sea draws our attention and we
read, with difficulty, for the stone is old and the lines faint and
worn.

". . . INTERRED YE BODY OF EDMOND LEC----, FORMERLY
COMMANDER OF HER MAJ---- SHIP YE _LINN FRIGOT_,
17-- . . . A FRENCH CORVAT FROM WHOM HE PROTECTED A
LARGE FLEET OF MERCHANT SHIPS ALL INTO SAFETY. . .
. AND BRAVELY HE GAVE YE ENEMY BATTEL AND FORCED
HIM TO BEAR AWAY WITH MUCH DAMMAGE. . . ."

We looked at one another. A good charge to take to sea in 1918! Quietly
we closed the door and came away.

[Illustration: THE OLD HARBOUR, PLYMOUTH]

XX

THE SAILING

FOG, AND THE TURN OF THE TIDE

RAINY weather overnight has turned to fog, and the lighthouse on the
Point greets breaking dawn with raucous half-minute bellows. Less
regular and insistent, comes a jangle of anchor-bells, breaking in from
time to time, ship after ship repeati