lesh" or whether he
have in him some genuine metallic rock, from which the fabric of the
distant world-state may be fashioned.

XXVI

Once more I am writing "homeward bound." Homeward bound! Outside the
Channel fog is coming down to enfold us, the wind is cold, my stock of
fruit, laid in at Las Palmas is done, and George the Fourth is
growling through the ventilator, "T' Longships, mister!"

Longships--that's twelve hours' run from the Mumble Head, the great
white lenticular lenses of which fling wide-sweeping spokes of light
across the tumbling waters of the Channel. The Skipper is cautious,
has been twenty-two hours on bridge and in chart-room; refuses to go
ahead until he can locate Lundy. We heard, in Grand Canary, that the
big White Star _Satanic_ is lying near the Lizard, back broken, total
loss, heroic passengers all safely landed. Wonderful people,
passengers. If they keep hysteria at a distance for a few hours, they
are bravoed from one end of the Empire to the other. The _Satanic's_
engineers? The Empire has overlooked them, I suppose, which is their
own peculiar glory.

Homeward bound! "Finishing," too, for three of us. Chief, Second, and
Fourth are leaving when we get in, and I shall be alone for a few
days. That means work, I fear, and no joyful run up to Paddington this
time. Well, well, next time _I_ finish, and we shall foregather in the
Walk once more. I was thinking, only a day or two back, that Chelsea
Embankment must be in its glory now, glory of early spring. That noble
line of granite coping and twinkling lights. How often have we walked
down past the Barracks from Knightsbridge, taken pot-luck at the
coffee-stall at the corner, and then fared homeward between the river
and the trees! Ah, me! To do it once again--that is what I long for.

In the meanwhile, the Longships are away astern, the Skipper has found
Lundy, a grey hump on the port bow in the morning light, and we are
"full ahead" for the Mumbles. Sailors' bags are drying on the
cylinder-tops, Chief, Second, and Fourth are fixing up a "blow-out" up
town to-morrow night; mess-room steward is polishing the brasswork
till it shines like gold; and I am writing to my very good friend. We
are all very cheerful, too; no "sailors' gloom" in our faces as we go
on watch. George the Fourth (I cannot imagine what the ship will be
like without him) is making himself ridiculous by doing everything for
"t' last time." "T' last time!" he mutte