The torpedoed ship still floats, though with a dangerous list and her stern low in the water. A sloop is taking her in tow, and we gather assurance of her state in the transport's boats still hanging from the davits; they have not abandoned. She falters at the end of the long tow-rope and sheers wildly in the wake of her salvor. The convoy has vanished into the grey of the east, and only a lingering smoke-wreath marks the bearing where they have entered the mist. The sun has gone, leaving but little afterglow to lengthen twilight; it will soon be dark. Apparently satisfied with their work the destroyers cease fire; whether there is oil on their troubled waters we cannot see. They linger a while, turning, then go on in the wake of the convoy. One turns north towards us, with a busy windmiller of a signalman a-top the bridge-house. "_What is the matter? Do you wish to be towed?_" We explain our case, and receive an answer that she will stand by, "_but use utmost dispatch effect repair_." 'Use utmost dispatch'! With every minute, as the time passes, goes our chance of regaining our station in the convoy; we are in ill content to linger! We have a liking for our chief engineer--a respect, an admiration--but never such a love as when he comes to the bridge-ladder, grimy, and handling his scrap of waste. "They're coupling up now! A job we had! Chain jammed and packed under th' quadrant, like it had been set by a hydraulic ram! If that one landed near Fritz, he'll trouble us no more!" [Illustration: EVENING: THE MERSEY FROM THE LANDING-STAGE] With the engines turning merrily, and helm governance under our hand, we regain composure. Our task is yet none too easy. Even at our utmost speed we cannot now rejoin the convoy before nightfall; snaking through the ships in the dark to take up station offers another harassing night out! Still, it might be worse--much worse! We think of the torpedoed ship towing so slowly abeam--of the khaki swarm on our decks, 'the light on all faces turned on one cant.' Surely our luck is in! The infection of the measured beat in our progress recalls a job unfinished; we step into the chart-room and take up pencil and dividers. [Illustration: THE STEERSMAN] [Illustration: THE WORK OF A TORPEDO] XXIII 'DELIVERING THE GOODS' OCTOBER on the Mersey is properly a month of hazy autumn weather, but the few clear days seem to gain an added brilliance from their rarity, and present the wide estuary in a vivid, clear-cut definition. The distant hills of North Wales draw nearer to the city, and stand over the slated roofs of the Cheshire shore as though their bases were set in the peninsula. Seaward the channel buoys and the nearer lightships are sharply distinct, cutting the distant sea-line like the topmast spars of ships hull down. Every ripple and swirl of the tide is exaggerated by the lens of a rare atmosphere; the bow wash of incoming vessels is thrown upward as by mirage.