‘Let go fore and aft,’ cried Raymond to the waiting men on the superstructure. ‘All gone, sir.’ At the fore part of the conning-tower a small pedestal rose containing the magnetic compass and steering gear and a number of small switches. Raymond pressed two of these and a hooter or ‘Klaxon Horn’ sounded below, a bell rang, and the twin screws began to revolve. ‘Astern both it is. Helm amidships.’ ‘’Midships, sir,’ from the coxswain. ‘Keep a look out aft, Boyd,’ said Raymond, turning to the navigator. ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ came the answer, then ‘all clear aft, sir.’ ‘The Klaxon’s sounded again.’ ‘Ahead starboard, astern port. Hard-a-starboard!’ snapped Raymond. ‘Hard over, sir,’ chorused the coxswain. ‘123’ stopped coming astern, gathered herself together, and then slowly surged ahead and swung round as sedately as a dowager. ‘Stop port. Ahead port,’ snorted the ‘Klaxon.’ ‘’Midships,’ from Raymond. ‘Steady. Take her out.’ ‘Take her out, sir.’ The boat steadied on her course and travelled silently down the harbour on her electric motors, carefully picking her way between the dark shapes of the anchored vessels. Conversation on the bridge was at a premium. Tempers are apt to be short and livers out of order at one o’clock in the morning. Presently Raymond looked ahead through his binoculars and jerked the bell lanyard impatiently. ‘Group up!’ he called down the shaft. ‘Grouped up, sir,’ came the answer. The subdued churning of the twin screws ceased and as suddenly started with redoubled energy as the batteries came in series, thrashing up the water astern and causing the boat to vibrate fore and aft as she leapt forward to the touch of the grouper switch. Down in the electric lit interior the L.T.O.[2] and an S.T.[3] were working the motor switches, ‘making and breaking’ in obedience to the telegraph lights, to which the ‘Claxtons’ called attention. Right aft in the engine-room the Chief E.R.A.[4] was hovering over the tail shafts with an oil can and a lump of dirty waste, with the air of a demon of the revels. Forward of him were the air compressors and main motors, and the engine clutches, and then the great eight-cylinder Diesel engines, a mass of burnished steel and brasswork in a narrow electric lit tunnel. The faint hum of the motors and the smell of fuel oil pervaded the air, but the cheery faces of the stokers on watch robbed the scene of its romance. One of them who was whistling ‘Tennessee’ three tones flat, and bending over a clutch with a dignified expression, straightened up as a man came down the engine-room hatch. ‘’Ere, Sam, you remember that gell wot----’ he began. ‘’Strewth,’ quoth the new-comer. ‘Ain’t it got dark sudden?’ ‘It usually does,’ broke in another voice from behind the engine, ‘at night-time.’ ‘No, I don’t remember any gall,’ replied Sam with some asperity; ‘and wot’s more, if that clutch ain’t ready pretty damn soon, you’ll be spoke to.’