..."

For the space of a couple of hours the boat slid swiftly through the
waves and successive cordons of patrols passed them onwards with
flickering signals. The men onboard a line of rusty drifters leaned
over the sides of their plunging craft and waved as the jaws of their
baleful traps opened to let them pass through. Above their heads a
gull circled inquisitively, shrilling the high, thin Song of the
Seventh Sea: astern the peaks of Ultima Thule faded like opals into the
blue.

A little cluster of rocky islands rose at length out of the sea ahead;
the Submarine Commander took a swift bearing and rolled up the chart.

"That'll do," he said; "now we'll dive. There's a shoal patch
hereabouts, and we'll sit on the bottom and have lunch while old man
Gedge starts looking for us. After lunch we'll let him get near and
try a bit of daylight stalking." He glanced at the sun overhead. "Bit
early, yet awhile," he added.

One by one, led by Sir William, they descended the steel-runged ladder
into the electric-lit depths of the Submarine. A hatch closed with a
muffled clang: a few curt orders were followed by a succession of
gurgles like those of the tide flooding through a cavern; the
Commanding Officer moved from the eyepiece of the periscope, and
gravely contemplated a needle creeping slowly round the face of a large
dial. A Petty Officer, with an expression emotionless as that of a
traveller in a railway tunnel, sat by the dial manipulating a brass
wheel; a few feet away sat a Leading Seaman similarly employed. The
eyes of both men were fixed on the hesitating needle as it shivered
round. Finally the needle wavered, crept on another inch and paused,
trembling. The Lieutenant-Commander glanced fore and aft, stripped off
a pair of soiled gauntlets and made a low-voiced observation. The two
men, as if released from a spell, turned away from their dials.

"There we are," said the Captain cheerfully, "sitting snug on a nice
sandy bottom in ten fathoms of water. What's for lunch?" He led the
way forward to a folding table between the polished mahogany bunks.
"Fried chops, ain't it?" he enquired, sniffing.

They took their seats on camp stools while a bluejacket dealt out tin
plates like playing cards. Sir William turned from a scrutiny of the
tiny book-shelf over the port bunk. At the head of the bunk was nailed
the photograph of a girlish face, and in close proximity to it one of a
lusty baby exploring a