The motors were started up; foot by foot the chain cables were brought on board until the anchors, their palms smothered in blue, slimy clay, were hauled up and secured. Then, in the gathering twilight, the boats headed for their destination. By this time the mist had increased considerably. Visibility was a matter of a couple of hundred yards. It was bitterly cold, the air being raw and damp. "Verily," thought Derek, "motor-boating in November differs considerably from yachting in August." At length the huge air-sheds of the Wagshot Station loomed up through the mist. Ordering half-speed, Derek brought his boat alongside the pier, and signalled to the second craft to lie up alongside him. "Where are you from?" enquired a great-coated individual from the pier-head--the Officer of the Watch. "From. Sableridge," replied Derek. "We've come to take away a sea-plane." "First I've heard about it," rejoined the O.W. "You'd better see the Adjutant. You're stopping here the night?" "'Fraid there's no option," replied Daventry. "Right-o! Moor your craft out there. I'll send a duty-boat out to take off the crews." "Out there" was a partially-protected anchorage, about a hundred yards from the pier. The boats pushed off and made for their appointed stations for the night, Derek taking particular care that each boat was properly moored with both anchor and kedge. This done the crews were taken off. Visions of a hot meal first for his men and then for himself (for it is an unwritten law that officers must first provide for the comfort of their crews before "packing up" themselves) were rudely shattered when the Officer of the Watch appeared. "I've seen the Adjutant," he announced. "You'll have to take those boats across to Bumble Creek. They'll be in the way of our flying-boats if they stay there." Derek felt inclined to use forcible language; to enquire pointedly why these instructions could not have been given him before the elaborate process of mooring the boats had commenced. To be ordered at the end of a strenuous day's work to undertake another hour's toil was a tough proposition for the cold and hungry men to tackle. "I'll send the duty-boat to pilot you," continued the O.W. "She'll bring you back to the station." Thankful for small mercies Derek turned his men to. It required fifteen minutes of hard work to unmoor and get under way. Fortunately the duty-boat was standing by, for the run across to Bumble Creek meant crossing an arm of the sea that was constantly alive with traffic. Once more the two boats were secured for the night, this time alongside a hulk. It was pitch dark when Derek and his men returned to Wagshot Air Station. Having seen his men installed in their temporary quarters and provided with a hot meal, Derek made his way to the officers' mess. Instead of a bright, cheerful building like that at Sableridge, he was directed to a large hut, which was divided into two large rooms and a few smaller ones.