one to the Lieutenant beside him. "It
ain't much of a place to look at, but I'm never sorry to see it again
after a dusting like we got last night."

The Lieutenant raised the glasses slung round his neck by a strap and
levelled them at a semi-globular object that had appeared on the surface
some distance away. "There's old Tirpitz waiting to say good morning as
usual."

The Commander laughed. "Rum old devil he is. That's where the Hun has
the pull over us. He's got something better than a seal to welcome him
back to harbour--when he _does_ get back!"

"When he does, yes." The other chuckled. "Gretchens an' iron crosses
an' joy bells. Lord, I'd love to see 'em, wouldn't you? Just for five
minutes!"

The Commander moved across to the tiny binnacle. "I'd rather see my own
wife for five minutes," he replied. Then, raising his voice, "Starboard
ten!"

"Starboard ten, sir," repeated the voice of the helmsman.

The Commander stood with watchful eye on the swinging compass card.
"Midships ... steady!"

"Steady, sir!" sang the echo at the wheel. The Commander glanced aft
through the trail of smoke at the next astern swinging round in the
smother of his wake. "Well, we shan't be long now before we tie up to
the buoy--curse these fellows! Here come all the drifters with mails and
ratings for the Fleet.... Port five!"

"Port five, sir!" The flotilla altered course disdainfully to avoid a
steam drifter which wallowed through the wake of the Destroyers in the
direction of the distant fleet, still shrouded by the morning mist.
"That's the King's Messenger going off to the Fleet Flagship. There come
the others, strung out in a procession, making for the different
squadrons. Wake up, you son of Ham!" The speaker stepped to the lanyard
of the syren and jerked it savagely. Obedient to the warning wail
another drifter altered course in reluctant compliance with the Rule of
the Road. "I'd rather take the flotilla through Piccadilly Circus than
manoeuvre among these Fleet Messengers! They're bad enough on the high
seas in peace-time with their nets out, but booming about inside a
harbour they're enough to turn one's hair grey."

If the truth be told, the past had known no great love lost between the
Destroyers and the fishing fleet. Herring-nets round a propeller are not
calculated to bind hearts together in brotherly affection. Perhaps dim
recollections of bygone mishaps of this nature had soured the Dest