s_, and
answers that she has other vessels of the convoy in sight to leeward. We
sheer into our proper position astern of her and find the outer column
showing through the mist in good station. On our report that we had no
others in sight, _Neleus_ alters course perceptibly to converge on the
commodore, and daylight coming in finds us steaming in misty but visible
touch with the other columns. The horse transports have dropped astern,
and one is bellowing for position. She gets a word or two on the
'buzzer,' comes ahead, and lets go the whistle lanyard.

If commodore's reckoning is right, we should now be on the destroyer
rendezvous, but our wireless operator, who has been listening to the
twitter of the birds, assures us that they are yet some distance off. We
hope for a clearing to enable them to meet us without undue search; it
will not be a simple matter to join company in the prevailing weather
conditions, particularly as we are working on four days of
dead-reckoning. By seven o'clock there is no sign of the small craft,
and we note our ocean escort closing in to engage the commodore with
signals. The rain lessens and turns to a deep Scotch mist, our range of
vision is narrowed to a length or two. Anon, our advance guardship sets
her syren sounding dismal wails at long intervals, as she swings over
from wing to wing of the convoy.

By what mysterious channel does information get about a ship? Is there a
voice in the aerials? Are ears tuned to the many-tongued whisperings of
rivet and shell-plate, that all hands have an inkling of events? The
rendezvous is an official secret; the coming of the destroyers is
supposedly unknown to all but the master, the navigators, and the
wireless operator, but it is not difficult to see a knowing expectancy
in the ranks of our company. Despite the wet and clammy mist, ignoring
the dry comforts of the ''tween-decks,' the troops crowd the upper
passages and hang long over the rails and bulwarks, pointing and
shouting surmise and conjecture to their mates. The crew are equally
sensitive. Never were engine-room and stokehold ventilators so
tirelessly trimmed to the wind. At frequent intervals, one or other of
the grimy firemen ascends to the upper gratings, cranks the cowls an
inch or two this way or that, then stands around peering out through the
mist for first sight of a welcome addition to our numbers. The official
ship look-outs are infected by a new keenness, and every vagary in