"Oh no. We could get an eighteen-knot clip out of her--more, if we wanted!" (If _War Trident's_ speed be low and doubtful, the Old Man can safely pile the knots on his stricken favourite.) "_She_ was a ship, not a damned parish-rigged barge like this--a poverty-stricken hulk that. . . ." "Yes. I heard about her from Benson, of _War Trumpet_. He sailed in last convoy. Said he was glad he wasn't appointed here." "Wasn't appointed here, be damned! Didn't have the chance. Why, that ship of his isn't in the same class at all. The _Trident_ can steer, anyway, and when we get things fixed up. . . . She has the hull of a fine ship. If only we could get a decent funnel on her. . . . Here, I'll try her at your nine and a half knots! I'll bet _War Trumpet_ can't do a kick above nine!" * * * * * Be it noted that the convoy officers have the wavy gold lace of the R.N.R. for their rank stripes; plain half-inch ones of the Royal Navy might have had to let the convoy sail at nine, after all--not knowing the 'grip' of the 'last ship.' [Illustration: EVENING: PLYMOUTH HOE] XIX CONFERENCE "A LAUNCH will be sent off at 3 p.m., S.T., to bring masters on shore for conference. You are requested to bring"--etc. So reads the notice, and p.m. finds the coxswain of the convoy office picket-boat steaming and backing from ship to ship, and making no secret of his disapproval of a scheme of things that keeps him waiting (tootling, perhaps, an impatient blast), while leisurely shipmasters give final orders to their mates at the gangways. ("That damned ship's cat in the chart-room again, sir!") More ships have come in since the clearing of the morning mist, and calm weather and vagaries of the tide have combined to crowd the ships in the anchorage into uncomfortably close quarters; perhaps, after all, it would be rather the counter-swing of that River Plate boat, anchoring close abeam ("Given me a foul berth, damn him!"), than the insanitary ways of the ship's cat that kept the captain, one leg over the rail, so long in talk with his mate.