“When we reach a dead calm in one of Clark Russell’s novels,” he said to the doctor, “we always know what to expect. Suddenly out of the west comes a ripping cyclone which lays us over on our beam ends. Then wild, blinding rain and utter darkness, lit up only by vivid flashes of lightning. Every one has to cling to whatever is nearest him: overboard go the chicken coops, and there is such a general pandemonium that the voice of command cannot be heard. Crash go the masts, funnels, and what not: we right ourselves, staggering under the mountainous waves, and find ourselves a dismantled hulk next morning, with the cook missing, and no hot rolls for breakfast. Now, in reality we have had evenings without a zephyr afloat, then follows a peaceful night, and morning comes with a maidenly blush, like that on a new-born rose. I imagine the ocean has improved since Clark Russell’s time, or perhaps the Government weather bureau has regulated tilings. We are a wonderful people, doctor, and at last Britannia really does rule the waves.” Fast as his yacht was, the young man had become tired of the voyage. He yearned for his morning paper and a stroll down Piccadilly. When well across the placid Bay of Biscay, he called up one of his wireless telegraphers, and said to him: “I say, my son, cannot you tune up your heavenly harp, and pull us some news down out of the sky? Aren’t we within the Marconi range of civilization yet?” “Yes, sir. Several private messages have come through, and some scraps of news, but nothing important. The chancellor of the exchequer is speaking in the House of Commons on some bill, so far as I understand it, to regulate the Bank of England.” “I fear that wouldn’t be very exciting reading, my boy, and besides, I don’t understand finance, and never did. Still, I’d welcome even the words of a politician this evening, so if the chancellor is still talking, write out what he says. And, by the way, if you get a chance to talk back, you might ask the horizon what races were on to-day, and which horses won. After all, it is encouraging to know that the chancellor of the exchequer is on his feet. That shows that old England is still a going concern. It seems a year since I was there.” The operator departed for the telegraphic cabin, and Stranleigh went on with his cigar and after-dinner coffee. Presently the young man returned with a grin on his face. “He’s at it again, sir,” he said, and handed Stranleigh a sheet of paper headed: “CHANCELLOR EXCHEQUER.