Amongst the naval people the news was received phlegmatically. Rumours of a German naval mutiny had been received before--perhaps it was a move on Germany's part to throw us off our guard. It seemed impossible to think otherwise but that the Hun High Seas Fleet would put to sea as a forlorn hope. British naval officers generously tried to credit the Germans with a sense of honour approaching their own; hence they could not expect anything else but a big scrap before the end. It would be a foregone conclusion, but it would give the Huns a chance to vindicate themselves and the British to clinch the opportunity that they had missed at Jutland. While his fellow passengers were discussing the world-wide situation in general and the naval one in particular, Meredith was still keeping watch for his chum Wakefield. Almost at the last minute Wakefield hove in sight, cheery and smiling as of yore, having in tow a bearded, greatcoated individual whom Meredith recognised as "Tough Geordie Morpeth." "Let's get aboard," exclaimed Wakefield briskly. "We can kag afterwards.... Yes; Morpeth's coming along, too.... Never mind about a porter; we'll sling this gear into the corridor. In you hop, Morpeth. My word! it was a narrow shave, eh, what?" The three edged along the corridor, making their way over handbags and portmanteaux until they came to the compartment Meredith had secured. "Leave your kit here," he remarked. "I'll find the attendant and get you a berth, Morpeth. S'pose you're going beyond York?" He looked inquiringly at the bearded R.N.R. man, who wore a brand-new uniform under his sea-stained greatcoat. "Yes, to Scapa, too," he replied. "I've got a shore berth there. Goodness knows how. Someone put their oar in for me--must have done. Anyhow, it's good money and a chance to get afloat occasionally, so I jumped at it. 'Fraid it's only for the duration though." And he sighed deeply. Like many another man whose heart and soul are wrapped up in his work, he both longed for and dreaded the time when "Fritz chucked his hand in." Meredith helped him off with his coat. "Jolly strange," remarked Morpeth, "being one-armed; but I'm getting used to it. Often I can feel my missing fingers--absolute fact." He sat down on an upturned suit-case and proceeded to fill his well-blackened pipe with a dexterity that surprised his companions. "That's a thing I've no use for now," he added, indicating a razor that Wakefield was removing from a handbag. "Being single-handed, in a manner of speaking, gives me an excuse for not shaving." Just then a short, thick-set man in the rig of a commander R.N.R. thrust his head through the doorway. "Sorry," he exclaimed apologetically. "Thought there might be a vacant berth. Why, dash my wigs, it's 'Tough Geordie'!" "Anderson, my lad, delighted! Squeeze in. We'll find a tot of something. I've a flask in my bag. Wakefield, an old chum of mine. And this is a young chum--Meredith by name."