It is little wonder that the convoy lieutenant goes warily, and, indeed, but for the brilliant inspiration of using the 'last ship,' it seems probable that the convoy will have to proceed at _Trident's_ modest nine knots. Bluntly, the captain is in undisguised ill-humour. He has been on deck practically since leaving the builder's yard, and his weary eyes suggest a need for prompt sleep. His room, still reeking of new paint and varnish, is in some disorder, and shows traces of an anxious passage along the coast. 'Notices to Mariners' lie open at the minefield sketches, with a half-smoked pipe atop to keep the pages open; chart upon chart is piled (for want of a rack) on bed and couch; oilskins, crumpled as when drawn off, hang over the edge of a door--not a peg to hang them on; an open sextant case, jammed secure by pillows, lies on the washstand lid; books of sailing directions, a taffrail log, some red socket-flares, are heaped awry in a corner of the room; the whole an evidence that lockers and minor ship conveniences are not yet standardized. Pray goodness he may have a stout honest thief of a chief mate, able and willing to find a baulk or two of timber, and a few nails and brass screws and copper tacks and a curtain-rod or two and a bolt of canvas! The convoy lieutenant, unheeding a somewhat surly return of his greeting, produces Convoy Form No. AX, and starts in cheerfully to fill the vacant columns. "Tonnage, captain?--register will do. Crew? Guns? Coal?--consumpt. at speeds. Revolutions per half-knot?" The form completed, he hands it over for signature, thus tactfully drawing the captain's attention to the secretarial work he has done for him. "What's the speed? Nine and a half?" "Speed!" answers the Old Man. "Hell! This bunch of hair-springs can't keep out of her own way! Speed? The damned funnel's so low we can't get draught to burn a cigarette-paper; and these new pumps they've given her! . . . Well, we might do nine, but only in fine weather, mind you. Nine knots!" "You'll have to do better for this convoy, captain. There's not a ship under nine and a half; but there may be a bunch of eight-knotters going out in five days." "Nothing under nine and a half! What? Why, there's _Pearl Shell_ came in with us. She hasn't a kick above nine. When I was in the old _Collonia_, we. . . ." "The _Collonia_? A fine ship, Gad! Were you in her, captain, when she was strafed? Let's see--Mediterranean, wasn't it?" The captain nods pleasantly, as if accepting a compliment. "_Umm!_ Mediterranean--troops--a hell of a job to get them off. Lost some, though"--regretfully. The convoy lieutenant turns a good card. "Must be a change to come down to ten knots, captain, after a crack ship like _Collonia_. What could she do? Sixteen?"