“You’re all deplorably self-centred,” observed the theatre ship, speaking for the first time. She was a condemned cargo boat that had been gutted, and her interior transformed into a lecture room and theatre. She was a sort of convivial missionary who ministered to the fleet irrespective of class or creed or function. “Not to say _cliquey_. Each one of you seems to think that the fate of the Empire depends on you individually. It’s not a bad spirit, I admit, but it can be carried too far. Individually you count for very little without each other’s help. Where would the destroyers be without the mine-sweepers--where would you all be without the mine-sweepers? Where would the battleships and battle cruisers be without the destroyers and light cruisers to screen and scout? A seaplane-carrier without support would be a sad sight ten minutes after the Germans heard she was in the neighbourhood. Submarines--er--submarines ...” “Well?” asked the submarines quietly. The theatre ship was delivering her oration on the strength of a lecture some staff officer had recently given on board her to a number of yawning brother officers. It had been called “The Co-ordination of Fleet Units,” or some such title, but unhappily the theatre ship couldn’t remember how it went on when you got to the part about submarines. The rest of the fleet said nothing, but contented themselves with winking to each other mischievously. They loved the theatre ship and owed her a debt immeasurable, but there were times when she adopted the “Mission to Seamen” pose and became rather tedious. “Well?” repeated the submarines moored in rows alongside their parent ship, and nudged each other in the ribs. As all the fleet knew, submarines are the Ishmaels of the Navy, who at sea vanish instantly on the sight of either enemy or friend. “Who might _we_ be dependent on to help us do our jobs?” “Er--as I was saying,” continued the theatre ship rather lamely, “where should we _all_ be without the submarines ...?” “We!” echoed the submarines’ parent ship, jealous of her charges. “I like that, you old tub-thumper! Where are your bally innards?” Actually she said neither “bally” nor “innards.” Pandemonium ensued, squadrons and flotillas all talking at once: jest and repartee, personalities and retorts flickering across the harbour like summer lightning. Above it all, quelling the noisy tumult on the instant, boomed the voice of the fleet flagship: “_Still!_” A night bird called in some far-off bay, and the water lapped against the smooth grey flanks of the ships, but there were no other sounds. Then-- “_Battle and battle cruiser squadrons and light cruisers raise steam for full speed with all dispatch. Report by squadrons when ready. Nth Battle Squadron, destroyers, and submarines proceed instantly and rendezvous in execution of previous orders._” The echoes broke back from the quiet hills and died away. “Gee!” muttered an irrepressible American ship. “Hold tight, Emma! we’re off!”