All the previous day Derek was exceptionally busy. On him rested the responsibility of the voyage. He had to see that the boats' equipment was in order, that the tanks were filled with petrol, that there was plenty of lubricating oil on board, that the men had drawn their rations and blankets, and that charts and navigating instruments were on board. Before sunset the two boats were moored alongside the pier. The start was timed for six in the morning. Hardly ever had Derek studied the barometer so frequently and so carefully. Twice during the night he rose from his camp-bed, donned trench-coat and sea-boots, and walked down to the pier, in order to satisfy himself that the boats were riding properly in the tide-way, and that their securing-rope had sufficient slack to allow for the rise and fall of the tide. At 5 a.m., just as he was enjoying a sound slumber, he was awakened by his batman. "What sort of morning is it?" he asked. "Cold, sir, and fine," replied the man. "Bright moonlight, and hardly any wind." Quickly Derek tumbled out of bed and began to dress. Experience had taught him that to be warmly clad in a boat is as necessary as when flying. Over his khaki breeches he wore a pair of thick flannel trousers. On his feet he had a pair of socks, a pair of woollen stockings, and a voluminous pair of india-rubber sea-boots. Walking even a short distance in loosely-fitting boots inevitably resulted in the total destruction of the heels of the socks, but on the other hand it would be a fairly simple matter to kick off the boots in the event of Derek finding himself "in the ditch". Sea-boots that fit tightly, and cannot be taken off quickly in an emergency, are nothing short of death-traps. He discarded his tunic, wearing in its place two thick sweaters. The next items were his oilskin trousers and coat, while the only outward and visible sign that he held His Majesty's Commission in the R.A.F. was his cap, with the distinctive badge of the crown, eagle, and wings. By the time he had completed dressing breakfast was served. He ate his meal in solitary state in the electrically-lighted mess-room. There was no question of the excellence of the food at Sableridge, even in war-time. Hot Scotch porridge, with treacle, eggs and bacon, toast, real butter, marmalade and jam--a square meal to fortify the young officer's inner man for the coming ordeal of a sea-voyage. Feeling rather like an arctic explorer, for across his shoulders he now carried a well-filled haversack and a pair of binoculars, Derek descended the steps of the officers' mess and walked down to the pier. The batman was right. It was a cold morning. Every bush was festooned with hoar-frost that glistened in the moonlight. The planks of the pier were slippery with ice, while there was a biting coldness in the air that gave a zest to life, even at six o'clock on a November morning.