nadian
winters had hardened his skin to the stinging dry cold.

[Illustration: FIG. 33.--Duffel or Arctic clothing.]

The immense bundle of nondescript clothing at the wheel was "Mac," the
coxswain, whose voyages in Arctic seas with the Iceland fishing fleet
numbered more than his years of life, and whose deep-voiced Gaelic roar
could bring the "watch below" on to the cold, wet deck to their action
stations in less time than it would take a new recruit to tumble out of
his hammock.

Although the silence of the sea seems to settle on its watchers in those
northern marches, there was an unduly long absence of comment on the
nature of the weather and the prospects of "something exciting" turning
up out of the icy mist. The reason lay in the subconscious mind of all
on deck, for it was Christmas morning, 1916, and the thoughts of all
were dwelling on past years in the cheery surroundings of English and
Colonial homes--in vivid contrast to the dismal grey of the North Sea.
To break the spell of memory both officers felt would be blasphemy, and
yet a feeble attempt at conversation was made every now and then for the
sake of appearances.

To Mac, from the Orkneys, no such sentiment held sway, for Christmas to
him meant little compared with New Year's Day; but this was a special
Christmas, for a big plum pudding was being boiled on the petrol stove
below, and each roll of the little vessel threatened its useful
existence. Eventually he could keep silent no longer and tentatively
suggested a change of course to ease the violent lurching. The wheel was
spun round with alacrity as the telegraph rang out below and the engines
slowed down to a slow pulsating throb. The sharp bows of the patrol boat
rose dripping from each green-grey mass of sea as it rolled up out of
the white haze ahead and then fell gently back into the trough. The
violent pitching gave place to a more easy see-saw movement, and in
spite of the cold, which seemed to grow keener every minute to the
half-numbed figures on deck, a grunt of satisfaction escaped the
helmsman, and visions of steaming plum duff--a present from the
Admiral's wife--supplanted the more anxious thoughts of war and the
dangers of mine and submarine which lay hidden in the white snow-mists
and grey seas around.

The four hands in the forecastle, who formed the watch below, were lying
on their bunks, for sitting meant holding on, and were discussing orgies
on past Christmas days and plann