dder of light, and the Atlantic takes her.

"A filthy business," says Hodgson. "I wonder what it must have been like
in the old days?"

The thought had crossed my mind, too. What if that wavering carcass had
been filled with the men of the old days, each one of them taught (that
is the horror of it!) that, after death he would very possibly go for
ever to unspeakable torment?

And scarcely a generation ago, we (one knows now that we are only our
fathers re-enlarged upon the earth), we, I say, ripped and rammed and
pithed to admiration.

Here Tim, from the Control Platform, shouts that we are to get into our
inflators and to bring him his at once.

We hurry into the heavy rubber suits--the engineers are already
dressed--and inflate at the air-pump taps. G.P.O. inflators are thrice
as thick as a racing man's "flickers," and chafe abominably under the
armpits. George takes the wheel until Tim has blown himself up to the
extreme of rotundity. If you kicked him off the c. p. to the deck he
would bounce back. But it is "162" that will do the kicking.

"The Mark Boat's mad--stark ravin' crazy," he snorts, returning to
command. "She says there's a bad blow-out ahead and wants me to pull
over to Greenland. I'll see her pithed first! We wasted half an hour
fussing over that dead duck down under, and now I'm expected to go
rubbin' my back all round the Pole. What does she think a Postal
packet's made of? Gummed silk? Tell her we're coming on straight,
George."

George buckles him into the Frame and switches on the Direct Control.
Now under Tim's left toe lies the port-engine Accelerator; under his
left heel the Reverse, and so with the other foot. The lift-shunt stops
stand out on the rim of the steering-wheel where the fingers of his left
hand can play on them. At his right hand is the midships engine lever
ready to be thrown into gear at a moment's notice. He leans forward
in his belt, eyes glued to the colloid, and one ear cocked toward the
General Communicator. Henceforth he is the strength and direction of
"162," through whatever may befall.

The Banks Mark Boat is reeling out pages of A. B..C. Directions to
the traffic at large. We are to secure all "loose objects"; hood up
our Fleury Rays; and "on no account to attempt to clear snow from our
conning-towers till the weather abates." Under-powered craft, we are
told, can ascend to the limit of their lift, mail-packets to look out
for them accordingly; the lower lane