‘Now, I can’t allow you to complain of your lot,’ replied Raymond. ‘Here you are in one of the latest inventions of the twentieth century, and even that doesn’t satisfy you. When you have met George Willie in his little sardine tin you won’t be quite so anxious.’ ‘Two o’clock,’ he continued, glancing at his watch. ‘We’ll dive at half-past five. Call me at a quarter past.’ ‘All right. I’ll stop up till then. No need to wake Seagrave.’ Raymond’s legs disappeared down the hatch. ‘Call me if you see anything,’ he said as he went down, ‘and if you should run across Fritz, man the gun and Hun him instanter. I’ll be up before you get the first round off.’ ‘Very good, sir. Good-night.’ ‘Good-night.’ And the captain vanished below, like a stage demon down a trap. Left to himself, Boyd lit a pipe, took a look round with the glasses and peered into the compass, where a thin circle of light showed up the figures on its face. The night was clear now for the clouds had rolled away, but it was still very dark. All round was the dark rim of the horizon, and just below, quite close, was the greedy ocean, lapping up over the superstructure as the boat hurried on. The stars gleamed tranquilly and the night seemed very still. A queer feeling this, with only the helmsman and the click of the gyro compass for company; like being adrift on the open sea in a small motor-boat. Darkness and the faint chug-chug of the engines leant an eeriness to the situation, and the proximity of the water only added to its intensity. Down through the hatch Boyd could see a small circle of the control room, where a messenger was sitting on a camp-stool reading a penny magazine with evident enjoyment. Above and all around, nature and solitude; below, men, the smell of cocoa, the engines of death and ... a penny magazine. The watch dragged slowly on, and Boyd, seated on the little round stool screwed into the deck, began to feel the chilliness of the dawn. He rose and commenced pacing the ‘bridge.’ Not much room to walk here, for the periscope standard rose abaft the conning-tower hatch, and beyond that were the bridge berthing wires. Three steps and turn. Three steps and turn.... Then suddenly a broad white finger of light shot up over the horizon on the port bow, cleaving the darkness with an eerie suddenness. Boyd rang the bell. ‘Tell the captain that a searchlight is visible from the enemy coast,’ he called to the messenger in the control room. A minute’s pause, the light wavered, steadied, and went out. ‘Captain says all right, sir,’ came the voice up the hatch. ‘Thank you,’ replied Boyd, relighting his pipe and settling down on the stool again. The boat sped on through the darkness. Somewhere away ahead, as evidenced by that broad beam of light, lay the hostile coast towards which the lean, grim-looking craft was racing as fast as Heaven and Hoskins could make her go.