For the most part the bluejackets were accepting the conditions with the same equanimity as when they fall in on the lower deck for dinner. Clad in glistening oilskins, and gripping their bundles, they formed up and marched off to a long shed to partake of refreshment, laughing and cutting jokes like overgrown schoolboys. The officers, too, were sorting themselves out and drifting away in search of a repast. Their baggage was left to take care of itself. Far from the Metropolis, and free from the inconveniences of being at the mercy of opulent and independent porters, Thurso was run strictly on Service lines. There was no necessity on the part of the owners to worry about their luggage. Under the supervision of a "baggage officer" a crowd of bluejackets threw themselves upon the weird assortment of "officers' effects," and in due course the luggage, marshalled and sorted, would be transferred to various tenders for conveyance to the Fleet. Presently the refreshment-rooms disgorged their temporary occupants. Voices in the night were heard shouting, "Men for _Furious_ fall in." "_Iron Dukes_ to the right." "Ninth Destroyer Flotilla men, this way"--until the hitherto jumbled crowd of humanity was formed up into a distinct semblance of order. In fours the bluejackets marched along the pier to embark on various tugs and harbour craft that were to take them to their respective ships across the wild Pentland Firth, their movements regulated by a bull-throated piermaster, whose capacity for organisation alone, apart from the cap, greatcoat and sea-boots, would have proclaimed him to be a naval officer. At frequent intervals he would be interrupted to answer questions by harassed officers and men, yet with the ease of a Cook's courier he would supply the necessary information and then revert to his main task of supervising the embarkation. "M.L.'s?" he exclaimed, in answer to Wakefield's query. "Take passage in _Growler_. She's lying at No. 3 berth.... What's that? Beach-master at Skelda Holm? H'm! let me see. Yes! you'd better carry on with the M.L. party. You'll find a duty boat at Scapa." "So we don't part company yet awhile," said Morpeth. "Lead on, Wakefield, and let's get out of the rain. I can stick plenty of salt spray, but I'm hanged if I like this." They found the _Growler_, a tubby twin-screw tug, grinding against the pier, massive rope fenders notwithstanding. On board were half a dozen R.N.V.R. officers and about fifty men. The former eyed the newcomers keenly, as if expecting to find former acquaintances. "Give us your paw, laddie. I am delighted to see you," exclaimed a hearty voice, as a big, muscular hand gripped Meredith's shoulder. "Bless me, and Wakefield too!" "McIntosh!" ejaculated Meredith. "What are you doing here?"