“There wasn’t any rest,” Winchmore insisted pathetically. “There was just good old _Ethel_ with her engines missing like sin, and Uncle Newt thumping and stinking half a mile ahead of us, and me eating bread and Worcester sauce. I do when I feel that way. Besides, I wanted to go back and join the fishing-party. Just before dark I made out _Cordelia_--that Southampton ketch that old Jarrott fitted with oil auxiliaries for a family cruiser last summer. She’s a beamy bus, but she _can_ roll, and she was doing an honest thirty degrees each way when I overhauled her. I asked Jarrott if he was busy. He said he wasn’t. But he was. He’s like me and Nelson when there’s any sea on.” “But Jarrott’s a Quaker. ’Has been for generations. Why does he go to war?” said Maddingham. “If it comes to that,” Portson said, “why do any of us?” “Jarrott’s a mine-sweeper,” Winchmore replied with deep feeling. “The Quaker religion (I’m not a Quaker, but I’m _much_ more religious than any of you chaps give me credit for) has decided that mine-sweeping is lifesaving. Consequently”--he dwelt a little on the word--“the profession is crowded with Quakers--specially off Scarborough. ’See? Owin’ to the purity of their lives, they ‘_all_ go to Heaven when they die--Roll, Jordan, Roll!’” * * * * * “Disgustin’,” said the actress audibly as she drew on her gloves. Winchmore looked at her with delight. “That’s a peach-Melba, too,” he said. “And David Jarrott’s a mine-sweeper,” Maddingham mused aloud. “So you turned our Neutral over to him, Winchmore, did you?” “Yes, I did. It was the end of my beat--I wish I didn’t feel so sleepy--and I explained the whole situation to Jarrott, over the rail. ’Gave him all my silly instructions--those latest ones, y’know. I told him to do nothing to imperil existing political relations. I told him to exercise tact. I--I told him that in my capac’ty as Actin’ Lootenant, you see. Jarrott’s only a Lootenant-Commander--at fifty-four, too! Yes, I handed my Uncle Newt over to Jarrott to chaperone, and I went back to my--I can say it perfectly--pis-ca-to-rial party in the bay. Now I’m going to have a nap. In ten minutes I shall be on deck again. This is my first civilised dinner in nine weeks, so I don’t apologise.” He pushed his plate away, dropped his chin on his palm and closed his eyes. “Lyndnoch and Jarrott’s Bank, established 1793,” said Maddingham half to himself. “I’ve seen old Jarrott in Cowes week bullied by his skipper and steward till he had to sneak ashore to sleep. And now he’s out mine-sweeping with _Cordelia_! What’s happened to his--I shall forget my own name next--Belfast-built two-hundred tonner?” “_Goneril_,” said Portson. “He turned her over to the Service in October. She’s--she was _Culana_.” “_She_ was _Culana_, was she? My God! I never knew that. Where did it happen?”