first experience aboard an oil-burner, and he had not become used to it
yet. He smelled oil in the smoke from the funnels, he breathed it from the
oil range in the galley. His clothes gathered it from stanchions and
rails.

The water tanks were flavored with the seepage from neighboring
compartments. Frank drank petroleum in the water and tasted it in the
soup. The butter, he thought, tasted like some queer vaseline. But Frank
knew that eventually he would get used to it.

"How's she heading?" Frank asked of the chief engineer.

"All right, sir," was the reply. "Everything perfectly trim. I can get
more speed if necessary."

Frank smiled.

"Let's hope it won't be necessary, chief," he replied.

He inspected the room closely for some moments, then returned to the
bridge and reported to Captain Templeton.

The sea was rough, but nevertheless the speed of the flotilla was not
slackened. It was the desire of Captain Petlow, in charge of the destroyer
fleet, to convoy the transports beyond the danger point at the earliest
possible moment.

The Plymouth lurched up on top of a crest, then dived head-first into the
trough. On the bridge the heave and pitch of the vessel was felt
subconsciously, but the eyes and minds of the officers were busied with
other things. At every touch of the helm the vessel vibrated heavily.

Eight bells struck.

"Twelve o'clock," said Frank. "Time to eat."

The bridge was turned over to the second officer, and Frank and Jack went
below.

"Eat is right, Frank," said Jack as they sat down. "We can't dine in this
weather."

It was true. The rolling boards, well enough for easy weather, proved a
mockery in a sea like the one that raged now. Butter balls, meat and
vegetables shot from plates and went sailing about. It was necessary to
drink soup from teacups and such solid foods as Jack and Frank put into
their stomachs was only what they succeeded in grabbing as they leaped
about on the table.

The two returned on deck.

The day passed quietly. No submarines were sighted, and at last the
flotilla reached the point where the destroyers were to leave the homeward
bound transports to pursue their voyage alone. The transports soon grew
indistinguishable, almost, in the semi-darkness. The senior naval officer
aboard the Plymouth hoisted signal flags.

"Bon Voyage," they read.

Through a glass Jack read the reply.

"Thank you for your good work. Best of luck."

From the S.N.O. (senior