Although he was tired and needed sleep before the morrow’s coaling, he was glad that he had come. The click of the oars’ looms and the hiss of their blades, the spring at the beginning and the slackening at the end of each stroke, the ripple and suck about the stern, the regular breathing of the crew and the synchronous creaking of their stretchers, bespoke a romance that was not the romance of steel ships. The coxswain sat motionless, his hand on the tiller, as rugged as a statue rough-hewn in wood. Clustered in the stern sheets, with their bags of glistening tools, the carpenter’s party lent emphasis to man’s silence by their occasional whispering. John’s gaze strayed for’ard: the white gleaming of the crew’s faces and of their hands curved over the ears grew more and more indistinct towards the bows, and the line of gunwale shrank to a delicate thread. Swing, catch, and an easy stroke; the gleam, the dip, and the swirl of blades; the hidden faces and the arms outstretched, the arms drawn in and the faces raised. And he, above them, commanding them, passed among the shadows of great ships into the darkness. On either hand the little bow-wave ran out lapping, and flattened itself wide of the stern. “Don’t see no _Vera_, sir,” said the coxswain. “Not yet.” “’Adn’t we better arst, sir?” “Ask? Where?” “Report at the ship for orders, sir.” “The orders were to find the _Vera_.” John had no intention of returning to the _King Arthur_ and confessing himself defeated. “Don’t think we’ll find ’er, pullin’ round the ’arbour, sir--not to-night, anyway.” John had made up his mind. He would seek information elsewhere. The helm was put over a little. At no great distance from him, lay the _London_. At first he thought of going alongside her and asking her officer of the watch for the position of the _Vera_, but he dismissed this idea when he realized that this was no polite hour for midshipmen to pay calls. Moreover, a story of his being lost might easily become a jest in the Wardrooms of the Fleet. “Goin’ alongside the _London_, sir?” “No. When she hails, answer ‘passing.’ I’m going to stop under her bridge.” Came the hail: “Boat ahoy!” “Passing!” Judging the amount of way necessary to carry his boat to the forebridge, John very quietly gave the order: “Oars!” The rowing ceased, and the water licked at the sides. Presently the cutter was still. “Hail the bridge,” John said, “and ask the signalman of the watch for the _Vera_. Hail quietly, so that they can’t hear you aft.” The coxswain stood up. “_London_”--a thick sound, for it is no easy thing to hail quietly. Then a little louder, in a tone almost melodramatic: “_London_ ... _London_ ... _London_--bridge!” The bowman could not resist it. “Change at the Elephant an’ Castle!” The crew heard. The crew choked down a laugh hurtful to the coxswain’s dignity. He turned on them. “Knock orf chawin’ yer fat there,” he said angrily, and silence fell. Someone peered over the bridge rails.