The pilot, in a tone that suggests he has already 'put out an oar'--with little effect--joins in to reassure. "Clearin' outside now, captain. I haven't heard th' lighthouse syren for twenty minutes or more! The fog'll be hangin' here in harbour a bit." "Aye, aye! But it's here we are, pilot--not outside yet. A clearing out there doesn't show us th' leading marks, and I'll not risk it. I've no fancy for nosing into th' nets and booms. I know where I am here, and I won't stir a turn--unless"--bending over the light screen towards the launch--"unless you lead ahead!" The convoy officer is somewhat embarrassed. Certainly the weather is as thick as a hedge; there is no 'drill' of convoy practice that empowers him to order risks to be taken--navigation of the ships is not his province. It is enough for him to arrange and advise and assist. If he leads out and anything _does_ happen? Still, it is maddening to think of one hitch in a good programme--'almost a record, too!' He looks at his watch and notes that only fifty minutes have elapsed since _British Standard_ weighed. "Oh, hell! Right, captain," he says. "Heave up and I'll give you a lead out to clear weather!" 'IN EXECUTION OF PREVIOUS ORDERS' WE are Number Four in the line; _Vick--beer--code_ is our address, and we steam somewhat faster than the fog warrants to keep touch with our next ahead. She, in turn, is packing close up on the leader, and if, in the strict ruling of a 'line ahead,' we are stepping out a trifle wide, at least we keep in company. The farthest we can see is the thrash of foam, white in the grey, of _War Ordnance's_ propeller--a good moving mark, that, though faint, draws the eye by the lead of broken water. Nearer, we have a steering-guide in her hydroplane, cutting and dancing under the bows and throwing a sightly feather of spray. The sea is flat calm, save for our leader's wake--a broad ribbon of troubled water through which we steer. Our eyes, now limited in range by the fog, seem to focus readily on trifles; for want of major objects, roving glances take in driftwood and ship-litter, and turn on minute patches of seaweed with an interest that a wider range would dissipate. Spurring, black-crested puffins come at us from under the misty pall, floating still, as if set in glass, till our bow wash plays out and sets them, squawking in distress, to an ungainly splutter on the surface, or dipping swiftly to show white under-feathers and the widening rings of their dive.