There was a long pause. At last Lawless pulled himself together and realised that life still had to be lived. "I think, sir, if it could be managed, I should like to transfer back to the Sea Service," he said. "The Flying Corps is a bit too risky for me." CHAPTER III THE DECOY Whether it was due to the fact that, in addition to having smashed up two monoplanes, Lawless had lost the new seaplane which he had been ordered to test, was never made clear to him, but certain it is that, soon after the latter incident, his request to be transferred back to the Sea Service was granted. That was why, in accordance with his instructions, he found himself at Devonport awaiting orders. In due course these arrived, and were to the effect that he must report himself on board the patrol boat _O47_, at Falmouth, where he would enjoy temporary rank as Lieutenant. "Holy smoke!" ejaculated Lawless when he received the order, "this takes me down a peg. Why, I was Lieutenant-Commander----" "Don't worry," interposed the Port Admiral encouragingly. "You'll be back where you started from before long. I'll do my best to get you your old ship, the _Knat_." "Thank you, sir," answered Lawless gratefully. On arriving at Falmouth he found the _O47_ a grimy, unpicturesque, and weather-beaten trawler, whose prescribed beat, he was informed, lay "somewhere" west of Start Point. The skipper, a gruff, taciturn old salt, received him without enthusiasm, and grumbled audibly at having to "dry-nurse green-horns." Obviously he had never heard of the Lieutenant's exploits when in command of the _Knat_, and Lawless was careful not to undeceive him. "I'll have a lark with the old buffer," he told himself, and felt so pleased at this idea that he forgot his indignation at having been assigned to such a wretched old tub and with inferior rank. The _O47_ left Falmouth Harbour on the following morning, and was soon stubbing her way westward, rolling as only a North Sea trawler can roll. There was a stiff, sou'-westerly breeze blowing, and as the day waned it showed signs of developing into a first-class hurricane. The sea, which had been merely choppy to begin with, had risen until the great foam-crested billows charged down upon each other, flinging high their white manes of wind-driven spume. The sky had turned from blue to a cold, steely grey, with low-lying clouds like banks of soiled snow on the western horizon. A pale crescent moon already showed dimly in the half-light. In the little wheelhouse, perched high up in front of the funnel, Skipper Chard clung to a handrail and peered through the rime-frosted glass across the endless grey vista of tossing, white-capped seas. Chard growled as the trawler, struck amidships by an extra large wave, heeled till her port taffrail was under water.