* * * * * The Destroyer, that for three hours had been slamming through a head sea, rounded the headland and came in sight of the anchored Fleet. The Yeoman of Signals on the Flagship’s bridge closed his glass with a snap. "She’s got mails for the Fleet," he called to the Leading Signalman. "I’ll report to the Flag-Lieutenant." As he descended to the quarterdeck he met the Officer of the Watch. "Destroyer coming in with mails, sir." The Lieutenant’s face brightened; he called an order to the Boatswain’s Mate, who ran forward piping shrilly. "A-wa-a-ay picket-boat!" he bawled. The Flag-Lieutenant was reading in his cabin when the Yeoman made his report. Snatching up his cap, he hastened in to the Admiral’s apartments. "Destroyer arriving with mails for the Fleet, sir." The Admiral glanced at the calendar. "Ah! Eight days since we had the last. Thank you." The Flag-Lieutenant poked his head inside the Secretary’s Office. "Now you fellows will have something to do—the mail’s coming in!" "Thank you," replied the Secretary’s Clerk. "But, Flags, _try_ not to look quite so inanely pleased about it. She’s probably forgotten all about you by now." The Destroyer with rime-crusted funnels drew near, and men working on the upper decks of the Fleet ceased their labours to watch her approach. One of the side-party, working over the side in a bowline, jerked his paint-brush in her direction. "If I don’t get no letter this mail—so ’elp me I stops me ’arf pay," he confided grimly to a "Raggie," and spat sententiously. In the Wardroom the married officers awoke from their afternoon siesta and began to harass the Officer of the Watch with inquiries. The news spread even to the Midshipmen’s Schoolplace, and the Naval Instructor found straightway that to all intents and purposes he was lecturing on Spherical Trigonometry to deaf adders. With the eyes of the Fleet upon her, the Destroyer anchored at last, and the Flagship’s picket-boat slid alongside to embark the piles of bloated mail-bags. As she swung round on her return journey the Yeoman on the Flagship’s bridge glanced down at a signal-boy standing beside the flag-lockers, and nodded. Two flags leaped from the lockers and sped to the masthead. Instantly an answering flutter of bunting appeared on each ship. "Send boats for mails." The Flagship had spoken. * * * * * In Wardroom and Gunroom a rustling silence prevailed. Each new-comer as he entered rushed to the letter-rack and hurriedly grabbed his pile of letters: there is a poignant joy in seeing one’s name on an envelope twelve thousand watery miles away from home, no matter whose hand penned the address. In some cases, though, it mattered a good deal.