who has held out to a job o' work
completed, the P.C.O. stretches his arms and yawns audibly and
whole-hearted. "A good bath now and a bite o' breakfast and-- Oh, hell!
What's that astern?"

The turn in the wake has drawn his eye to a grey blur in the glare of
the mist. An anchored ship!

Keeping the helm over, the coxswain swings a wide circle and steadies on
the mark. "Damn if it ain't her!" he says, as the launch draws on.

The _Cinderella_ lies quiet with easy harbour smoke rising straight up
from her funnel and no windlass party grouped on the forecastle-head;
quiet, as if fog and convoy and the distant reverberations of her sister
ships held no concern for her. To the P.C.O.'s surprised and somewhat
indignant hail there is returned a short-phrased assurance that the
ruddy anchor is down--and is going to remain down! "Think I'm going out
in this to hunt my place in the pack? No damn fear!" says the captain.
"Why, I can scarce see who's hailing me, less a line o' ships barging
along!"

The pilot, in a tone that suggests he has already 'put out an oar'--with
little effect--joins in to reassure. "Clearin' outside now, captain. I
haven't heard th' lighthouse syren for twenty minutes or more! The
fog'll be hangin' here in harbour a bit."

"Aye, aye! But it's here we are, pilot--not outside yet. A clearing out
there doesn't show us th' leading marks, and I'll not risk it. I've no
fancy for nosing into th' nets and booms. I know where I am here, and I
won't stir a turn--unless"--bending over the light screen towards the
launch--"unless you lead ahead!"

The convoy officer is somewhat embarrassed. Certainly the weather is as
thick as a hedge; there is no 'drill' of convoy practice that empowers
him to order risks to be taken--navigation of the ships is not his
province. It is enough for him to arrange and advise and assist. If he
leads out and anything _does_ happen?

Still, it is maddening to think of one hitch in a good
programme--'almost a record, too!' He looks at his watch and notes that
only fifty minutes have elapsed since _British Standard_ weighed.

"Oh, hell! Right, captain," he says. "Heave up and I'll give you a lead
out to clear weather!"

'IN EXECUTION OF PREVIOUS ORDERS'

WE are Number Four in the line; _Vick--beer--code_ is our address, and
we steam somewhat faster than the fog warrants to keep touch with our
next ahead. She, in turn, is packing close up on the leader, and if, in
the strict