te from a Scottish regiment is here, two
Belgians and a Russian staff officer struggle in a narrow space to
adjust their life-belts. A brigadier, a keen-eyed, eager-faced young
man, one of those to whom the war has given opportunity and
advancement, joins the group. He speaks in French to the Belgians and
the Russian. He helps to make the V.A.D. less utterly uncomfortable.
He offers me his flask and then a cigar.

There is one subject of conversation. Will the boat start? The
Russian is hopeful. Is not England mistress of the seas? The V.A.D.
is despondent. Once before in a long-ago time of leave the boat did
not start. The passengers, and she among them, were disembarked. The
Scottish private has heard from a friend of his in "the Signals" that
German submarines are abroad in the Channel. The brigadier is openly
contemptuous of all information from men in "the Signals." The
Canadian sister is cheerful. If she were captain of the ship, she
says, she would start, and, what is more, fetch up at the other side.

The captain, it appears, shares her spirit. The ship does start. The
harbour is cleared and at once the tossing begins. The party between
the deckhouses sways and reels. It becomes clear very soon that it
will be impossible to stand. But sitting down is difficult. I have to
change my attitude. It is not possible for any one else to sit down
if I keep my legs stretched out, and the others must sit down or else
fall. The brigadier warns the Russian to be careful how he bestows
himself.

"Don't put your feet on my haversack," he says. "There's a bottle of
hair-wash in it."

The Russian shifts his feet.

"There'll be a worse spill if you trample on mine," I murmur.
"There's a bottle of Benedictine in it."

"Padre!" said the brigadier. "I'm ashamed of you. _I_ had the decency
to call it hair-wash."

The Canadian sister laughs loud and joyously.

It is noticed that the Scottish private is becoming white. Soon his
face is worse than white. It is greyish green. The Canadian sister
tucks her skirts under her. The prospect is horrible. There is no
room for the final catastrophe of seasickness. The brigadier is a man
of prompt decision.

"Out you go," he says to the man. "Off with you and put your head
over the side."

I feel that I must bestir myself for the good of the little party,
though I do not want to move. I seize the helpless Scot by the arm
and push him out. The next to succumb is the Russian staff off