The shores about are quite in darkness, though now and then a glow appears over the hidden dockyard as if some one there had opened a furnace door. A little breeze is blowing a thin, flat sheet of cloud across the moon; one can hear water slapping against the sides. The sailors on watch walk up and down the decks, shouldering their guns. In the light one might believe the basketry of the woven masts to be spun of delicate silver bars. Behind us ride the other vessels of the squadron, a row of dark, triangular shapes. The great columnar guns, sealed with a brazen plug, seem mute and dead. The curtain of a hatchway parts, and a little group of officers come on deck to watch a squadron go to sea. One by one the vessels, battleships and attendant destroyers glide past us into the dark, and so swift and silent their motion is that they seem to be less self-propelled than drawn forward by some mysterious force dwelling far beyond in the moonlit sea. A slight hiss of cleaving water, the length of a hurrying grey fortress beneath the moon, and the last of the squadron vanishes down the roads. For a little time one may see the diminishing glares of blinker lights. Squadrons of various kinds are forever leaving a fleet base to go on mysterious errands, squadrons are ever returning home from the mystery and silence of the sea. A friend comes to tell me that we have been put on "short notice," and may leave at any instant. XXIII TO SEA WITH THE FLEET On the morning of the day that the fleet went out, there was to be felt aboard that tensity which follows on a "short notice" warning. Officers rushed into the wardroom for a hasty cup of coffee and hurried back to their beloved engines; the bluejackets, too, knew that something was in the air. A visitor to the flagship will not have to study long the faces of his hosts to see that they are an exceptional lot of men. Whilst among the destroyers there is a good deal of the grey-eyed ram-you, damn-you type; on a battleship there is a union of the elements of thought and action which is very fine to see. Nor is the artist element lacking in many a countenance. I remember a chief engineer whose ability as an engineer was a word in the fleet; it was easy to see, when he took you through his marvellous engine room, that he enjoyed his labour as much for the wonder of the delicacy, the power and the precision of his giant engines as he did for their mere mechanical side of pressures and horsepower. Nor shall I ever see a more perfect example of coördination and competence than a turret drill at which I was invited to assist. From the distinguished young executive to the lowest rated officer in "the steerage," every man brought to his task not only an expert's understanding of it, but a love of his work, which, I think it is Kipling that says it, is the most wonderful thing in all the world. The vessel was very much what Navy folk call