ast
quarterdeck the man who bore a share of the Destiny of Europe on his
shoulders was still pacing thoughtfully up and down.

[1] Arguing.

[2] Chief Boatswain's Mate.

CHAPTER VII

CARRYING ON

The fresh Northern breeze sent the waves steeplechasing across the
surface of the harbour, and lapping over the hull of a British
Submarine as she moved slowly past the anchored lines of the
Battle-fleet towards the entrance.

Her Commanding Officer stood beside the helmsman, holding a soiled
chart in his hands; further aft on the elliptical railed platform of
the conning tower a tall, angular, grey-haired man, clad in civilian
garb, stood talking to the First Lieutenant. A Yeoman of Signals, his
glass tucked into his left arm-pit, was securing the halliards to the
telescopic mast, at which fluttered a frayed White Ensign. A couple of
figures in sea-boots and duffle coats were still coiling down ropes and
securing fenders, crawling like flies about the whale-backed hull. A
hundred and fifty feet astern of the conning-tower the unseen
propellers threw the water into vortices that went curling away down
the long wake.

"We'll pick up the trawler outside," said the Lieutenant-Commander,
folding up the chart and sticking it into the breast of his
monkey-jacket. "Deep water out there, and we can play about." His
face was burned by the sun to the colour of an old brick wall; the
tanned skin somehow made his eyes look bluer and his hair fairer than
was actually the case; it accentuated the whiteness of his teeth, and
gave his quick smile an oddly arresting charm.

The elderly civilian considered him with grave interest before
replying. "Thank you," he said. "That's just what I want to do--play
about!"

"The other experts are all in the trawler, with the apparatus,"
supplemented the Lieutenant-Commander. "We're under your orders, sir,
for these experiments."

"Thank you," said Sir William Thorogood, Scientist; he drew a cigar
case out of his pocket. "I feel rather like a man accepting another's
hospitality and spending the day trying to pick his brains."

The Submarine-Commander smiled rather grimly. "You mean you're trying
to find a way of cutting our claws and making us harmless?" he said.

"Well--Fritz's claws," amended Sir William.

"Same thing," replied the Lieutenant-Commander. "What's ours to-day is
theirs tomorrow--figuratively speakin', that is. If it's sauce for the
goose it's sauce fo