“She’s given her funnel a coat of paint since last month ... port ten--steady! steady!... There’s the gate vessel moving.... The skipper is waving to hurry him up.... Wants his breakfast, I suppose.... That must be the big crane in the dockyard.... There are flags hung about everywhere.... Starboard a touch.... It’s getting devilish light.... There’s something that looks like a battle-cruiser alongside....” There was a long silence, then the figure manipulating the periscope suddenly stood upright. “We’re through,” he said quietly. “And that’s their new battle-cruiser.” * * * * * In the smoking-room of a British submarine depot a group of officers sat round the fire. Now and again one or other made a trivial observation from behind his newspaper; occasionally one would glance swiftly at the clock and back to his paper as if half afraid the glance would be intercepted. The hands of the clock crept slowly round to noon; the clock gave a little preliminary whirr and then struck the hour. “Eight bells,” said the youngest of the group in a tone of detachment, as if the hour had no special significance. A grave-faced lieutenant-commander seated nearest the door rose slowly to his feet and buttoned up his monkey jacket. “You goin’, Bill?” asked his neighbour in a low voice. The upright figure nodded. “He’d have done as much for me,” he replied, and walked quickly out of the room. No one spoke for some minutes. Then the youngest member lowered the magazine he was holding in front of him. “Do they cry?” he asked. “No,” said two voices simultaneously. “’Least,” added one, “not at the time.” The silence settled down again like dust that had been disturbed; then the first speaker leaned forward and tapped the ashes out of his pipe. “Well,” he observed, “they didn’t get him cheap, at all events. I’m open to a bet that he sent a Boche or two ahead of him to pipe the side.” The group nodded a grim assent. “Yes,” said one who had not hitherto spoken. “I reckon you’re right. But we shan’t hear till the war’s over. They know how to keep their own secrets.” He puffed at his pipe reflectively. “Anyhow, thank God I’m a bachelor,” he concluded. He lifted a fox-terrier’s head between his hands and shook it gently to and fro. “No one need go and tell our wives if _we_ don’t come back--eh, little Blinks?” The dog yawned, gave the hands that held him a perfunctory lick, and resumed his interrupted nap sprawling across his master’s knees. * * * * * Among the letters intercepted shortly afterwards on their way to a South American State from Germany was one that contained the following significant passage: