funnel-wraiths on the flat of the sea. An average of eight hours' steaming, seven-three revolutions, may be no good guide, considering the racing and the plunging we have gone through. In proper station we ought to see the loom of _Neleus_ ahead, or, at least, the wash of her fog-buoy. It is important that we should be in good touch at daybreak. We go full speed for a turn or two and post an officer in the bows to scan for our leader. New and vexing problems come at us as time draws on. We are due to start a zigzag, 'in execution of previous orders,' before the day breaks. We see a royal 'hurrah's nest'--a rough house--before us if we lay off without a proper sight of our fellows. So far there has come no negative to our orders; we are somewhat concerned. A message cannot have been missed, surely! "Nothing through yet, sir," is the wakeful assurance from the wireless operator. "X's fierce with this rain, but should get any near message all right." At eight bells we come in sight of one unit of the convoy. She shows up, broad off on our lee bow, in a position we had hardly looked for. There is little to see. A darkling patch, a blurred shadow, in the face of sea and sky, with a luminous curl of broken water astern. We cannot identify her in the darkness; flashing signals are barred in the submarine areas; we must wait daylight for recognition. She should be _Neleus_, but a hair-line on our steering-card may have brought us to the leader of the outside column. In any case we are in touch, and it is with some relief we ease speed to a close approximation of hers. Anon, our anxiety about the zigzag is dispelled by a message from the commodore, cancelling former orders. He has sat tight on it to nearly the last minute, hoping for a clearance. [Illustration: THE MAYFLOWER QUAY, THE BARBICAN, PLYMOUTH]