His son laughed indignantly with the scorn of youth. “You’re too old, dad,” he said; “you’re fifty-five.” “Fifty-three,” amended the older man. “Fifty-three, and I’ve got a master’s ticket.” This was a man who raced his own yacht across the Atlantic in the days of piping peace. “But I’ll act fair by you,” he continued. “I’ll go over and volunteer, and if they won’t have me I’ll come back and you can go instead--and God go with you.” They shook hands on the deal, and the older man went. Volunteers of fifty-three--even with masters’ tickets--were not being eagerly sought after in the Navy at the beginning of the war. The volunteer perhaps realised this, and so it happened that Whitehall accepted his age at his own estimate--forty-five. It was older than he looked or felt; and if his clear eyes are any index to character it was the first and last lie he ever told. His son awaited the return of the prodigal with some impatience; finally he received a letter bidding him to keep cheerful and look after his mother. His parent was at the time of writing in charge of an armed guard, nursing a leaky Norwegian windjammer through a north-easterly gale in the region of Iceland. He eventually battled her and a contraband cargo into Stornoway, and got the first bath and dry clothes he had had for ten days. He said he was very happy and doing his bit; and this I hope and believe he still is. * * * * * It is this love of the sea and familiarity with it in all its conditions that have served the R.N.V.R. officer in moments of stress in a manner which the frequent D.S.C.’s among them testify. But there are other incidents that have passed without such recognition because they came in the plain path of duty or were incidental to the sea-gipsy’s love of adventure. One of these deserves mention, because the two great Reserve services, the R.N.R. and the R.N.V.R., joined hands in the affair and saw it through together. Two divisions of British drifters were lying in a cross-Channel port awaiting orders to return to their base. It was in the winter, and a south-easterly gale was blowing. The subsequent meteorological records testify to its being the worst that year. The order to return came to the senior officer of the drifters qualified by “as soon as the weather has moderated sufficiently.” The senior officer of one division was an officer of the Royal Naval Reserve, and of the other a sub-lieutenant of the Volunteer Reserve. He of the R.N.R. looked at the sky and the breakers bursting in sheets of foam against the breakwater and thence to the barometer, and opined that it wasn’t good enough. The R.N.V.R. sub-lieutenant said he was tired of harbour and guessed he’d have a bump at it. The R.N.R. sub-lieutenant damned his eyes for a fool, but made the signal for shortening cable in his own division. The gale abated slightly, and the two divisions wallowed out in line ahead through the flying scud.