acity for controlling
much of the machinery of our new movements was no longer denied. The
shreds of old conservatism, the patches of contention and envy were
scattered by a strong free breeze of reasoned service and joint effort.

We meet the naval man on every turn of the shore-end of our seafaring.
We have grown to admire him, to like him, to look forward to his coming
and association in almost the same way that we are pleased at the
boarding of our favoured pilots. He fits into our new scheme of things
as readily as the Port Authorities and the Ship's Husband. The plumed
bonnets are no longer set up to attract our awed regard: by a better way
than caprice and petulant discourtesy, the naval officer has won a high
place in our esteem. We have borrowed from his stock to improve our
store; better methods to control our manning, a more dispassionate
bearing, a ready subordinance to ensure service. His talk, too. We use
his phrases. We 'carry on'; we ask the 'drill' for this or that; we
speak of our sailing orders as 'pictures,' our port-holes are become
'scuttles.' The enemy is a 'Fritz,' a depth-charge a 'pill,' torpedoes
are 'mouldies.' In speaking of our ships we now omit the definite
article. We are getting on famously together.

AT SEA

ALTHOUGH our experience of their assured protection is clear and
definite, our personal acquaintance with the larger vessels of the Navy
is not intimate. Saving the colliers and the oilers and storeships that
serve the Fleet, few of us have seen a 'first-rate' on open sea since
the day the Grand Fleet steered north to battle stations. The strength
and influence of the distant ships was plain to us in the first days of
the war even if we had actually no sight of their grey hulls. While we
were able to proceed on our lawful occasions with not even a warning of
possible interference, the mercantile ships of the enemy--being
abroad--had no course but to seek the protection of a neutral port, not
again to put out to sea under their own colours.

The operation of a threat to shipping--at three thousand miles
distance--was dramatic in intensity under the light of acute contrast.
Entering New York a few days after war had been declared, we berthed
alongside a crack German liner. Her voyage had been abandoned: she lay
at the pier awaiting events. At the first, we stared at one another
curiously. Her silent winches and closed hatchways, deserted decks and
passages, were markedly in cont