eck, and when the
cruisers pass him, tearing the deep open in half a gale, thanks God he
is not as they are, and goes to bed beneath their distracted keels.

* * * * *

EXPERT OPINIONS

"But submarine work is cold-blooded business."

(This was at a little session in a green-curtained "wardroom" cum
owner's cabin.)

"Then there's no truth in the yarn that you can feel when the
torpedo's going to get home?" I asked.

"Not a word. You sometimes see it get home, or miss, as the case may
be. Of course, it's never your fault if it misses. It's all your
second-in-command."

"That's true, too," said the second. "I catch it all round. That's
what I am here for."

"And what about the third man?" There was one aboard at the time.

"He generally comes from a smaller boat, to pick up real work--if he
can suppress his intellect and doesn't talk 'last commission.'"

The third hand promptly denied the possession of any intellect, and
was quite dumb about his last boat.

"And the men?"

"They train on, too. They train each other. Yes, one gets to know 'em
about as well as they get to know us. Up topside, a man can take you
in--take himself in--for months; for half a commission, p'rhaps. Down
below he can't. It's all in cold blood--not like at the front, where
they have something exciting all the time."

"Then bumping mines isn't exciting?"

"Not one little bit. You can't bump back at 'em. Even with a Zepp----"

"Oh, now and then," one interrupted, and they laughed as they
explained.

"Yes, that was rather funny. One of our boats came up slap underneath
a low Zepp. 'Looked for the sky, you know, and couldn't see anything
except this fat, shining belly almost on top of 'em. Luckily, it
wasn't the Zepp's stingin' end. So our boat went to windward and kept
just awash. There was a bit of a sea, and the Zepp had to work against
the wind. (They don't like that.) Our boat sent a man to the gun. He
was pretty well drowned, of course, but he hung on, choking and
spitting, and held his breath, and got in shots where he could. This
Zepp was strafing bombs about for all she was worth, and--who was
it?--Macartney, I think, potting at her between dives; and naturally
all hands wanted to look at the performance, so about half the North
Sea flopped down below and--oh, they had a Charlie Chaplin time of it!
Well, somehow, Macartney managed to rip the Zepp a bit, and she went
to leeward with a list on