Navigators were correcting charts and cleaning gyro compasses, and now and again the captains would dodge below to superintend, or two or three of them would hang round a periscope or a torpedo-tube arguing a knotty point or demonstrating the correctness of their theories. It was a fine warm day, and the _Parentis_ looked like a hen in a gilded coop with her chicks clustered about her. All round her lay the Fleet; picket boats danced across from ship to ship, the sound of a Marine band drifted over from a neighbouring battleship, and the buzz of work rose on the air. The officer of the watch, resplendent with a sword-belt and telescope, walked the quarter-deck, keeping a general eye on everything that took place. The quartermaster, corporal of the watch, and messengers hung round the gangway, and even the distant bridge was a scene of activity, where a gray-haired yeoman of signals harried his signal staff round the gaudy flag lockers. Forward an R.N.R. Lieutenant was drilling the boys’ division at physical exercise, and down below the submarine attack ‘teacher’ was being kept busily employed. A picket-boat approached the gangway. The midshipman who was steering held up four fingers and laid them on his coat-sleeve, and as she swung alongside the gangway party formed up. A tall, erect figure stepped out of the boat, the bos’n’s mate shrilled on his pipe, the quarter-deck came to attention, and the officer of the watch saluted. A Post Captain had come aboard. The boys’ division fell out and gave place to a squad under torpedo instruction; the Marine detachment paraded, and then the bugle sounded ‘Stand easy.’ Men came up out of the boats to snatch a smoke during the ten minutes’ respite; or laid aside their brass rags and departed to the mess decks. Ten minutes blessed relief before ‘Carry on’ sounded by the diminutive Marine bugler sent them back to their tasks. Later, the Captain of the depot held his court for defaulters. Then ‘cooks’ was sounded, the rum was served out, and at eight bells, noon, came the welcome dinner call. Up over the side came the crews, followed in a more dignified manner by the officers, who dived below to their rooms, to wash and don a clean monkey-jacket for lunch. Blake came up out of his boat, fully expecting to see ‘159’ in her accustomed berth, and it was with quite a shock that he realised that she had not yet returned. It was with a presentiment of something seriously amiss that he presently took his seat at the luncheon-table. The same feeling seemed to express itself in the others’ faces, but this might be only his imagination. No one spoke of ‘159,’ in fact they all seemed to leave her severely alone. But there was a general feeling in the air that all was not well, and it seemed evident, though no word was actually spoken, that everybody fully realised the fact that she was now sixteen hours late, and a boat that is sixteen hours overdue in war-time ... well, things _may_ have happened.