Then came the oversea gipsies to fill the vacant places of those of their brethren who had finished their last long trick. From Auckland, Sydney, and Winnipeg they came; from Vancouver, Wellington, Toronto, and Montreal. They were strangers to Crouch and Solent, but the yachtsmen of England welcomed them into the mysterious indissoluble free-masonry of all sea-lovers, which under the White Ensign is called to-day the R.N.V.R. Now, of their achievements in the Motor Boat Patrol worthier pens than mine have written. They have endured monotony--which is the lot of many in modern war--and, what is more difficult, have maintained their efficiency and enthusiasm throughout. They perform duties which are in no way connected with glory in any shape or form, and have been content to wait their turn for greater things with willing cheerfulness. And some have attained that glory, buying it lightly at the price of life. Thus far we have attempted to record the doings of the small yachtsman--by your leave the truest of all sea gipsies. But there were others, owners of ocean-going steam-yachts and Atlantic Cup racers, whose experience of the sea differed little from that of the rugged professional. These, on the outbreak of war, proceeded to the nearest dockyard demanding guns, and men who could shoot them, in the King’s name. They got the guns and the men, and they reinforced the trawler patrol and examination service from the Shetlands to the Lizard. When it is remembered that few of these gallant sportsmen possessed masters’ “tickets”: that 300-ton yachts are not built to keep the seas in winter off the outer Hebrides, and yet kept them: when the number of losses and groundings during the period they were commanded by amateurs is compared with the subsequent tale of their achievements under the professional seamen who succeeded them--then some true insight into the value of the deep-sea yachtsmen’s work will be obtained. This is not the time to recount in detail the performances of the individual or his yacht. The Navy knows them, but the Navy, according to its wont, is silent. Some day, however, when the lawns that overlook the Solent are thronged once more, and the harbours of the Riviera again reflect the graceful outlines of these slim Amazons of the sea, smoking-room and tea tables will hear the tales--or some of them. And there will be some for ever untold, because the men who might have told them have passed into the Great Silence. One story, however, will serve to illustrate the spirit in which the deep-sea yachtsman answered the call. There was a certain man living overseas who at the outbreak of war was approached by his son. “I’m going over to enlist,” said the boy. Now the boy’s mother was an invalid, and this was the only son. The father smoked in silence for a minute, considering his son’s announcement. “No,” he replied at last, “not yet. If you are killed, your mother would die. I’ll go over first.”