It is decided, then,
that the orders stand," and there is at least a certain relief in his
tone as he orders, "Weigh anchor!"

The _British Standard_ is deep-loaded, in contrast to the usual empty
war-time outward bound, but her lading is clean salt water, no less, run
into her compartments on the sound theory that Fritz, by a strafe, may
only 'change the water in the tanks.' Homeward, from the west, there
will be no such fine assurance, for a torpedo may well set her ablaze
from stem to stern, and the enemy takes keen and peculiar delight in
such _Schrecklichkeit_. Still, there is little thought to that; _British
Standard_ is to lead the line, and her anchor comes to the hawse and she
backs, then comes ahead again, swinging slowly under helm towards the
sound of 'gateships'' hand-horns. High on the stern emplacement her men
are uncovering her gun and clearing the ranges, and the long grey barrel
is trained out to what will be the sun-glare side of the first tangent
of her sea-course. Close astern of her comes _War Ordnance_, her pushful
young captain having taken heed of the sounds of _Standard's_ weighing.
"Good work," says the P.C.O. cheerfully, and cons his rough chart for
the whereabouts of Number Three.

As though the devil in the wind had heard him, down comes the fog
again, dense this time, a thick blanket-curtain of it that shuts off
the misty stage on which the prompter had hoped, passably, to complete
his dispatch of the fleet.

The compass again. "East 'll do," and the launch slips through the grey
of it. All around in the roadstead the clank of cable linking over the
spurs, and hiss and thrust of power windlasses are indication that
_British Standard's_ movement has given signal to weigh, that it is
plain to the others--"Convoy will proceed in execution of previous
orders." A propellor, thrashing awash in trial, looms up through the fog
ahead, but 'East' has brought the launch wide of her mark, and
_Massilia_ is answer to the P.C.O.'s hail. _Massilia_ is Number Four,
but needs must when the fog drives, so he advises the captain to get
under way and head out.

Number Three has stalled badly and is hot in a burst of graceless
profanity from bridge to forecastle-head, and (increasing in volume and
blood-red emphasis) from there to the chain-locker. There is a foul
stow. Her nip-cheese builders have pared the locker-space to the
mathematical limit (to swell her carrying tonnage), and the small crew
that he