So, once more:  continuous bulkheads—­a clear way of escape to the deck out of each water-tight compartment.  Nothing less.  And if specialists, the precious specialists of the sort that builds “unsinkable ships,” tell you that it cannot be done, don’t you believe them.  It can be done, and they are quite clever enough to do it too.  The objections they will raise, however disguised in the solemn mystery of technical phrases, will not be technical, but commercial.  I assure you that there is not much mystery about a ship of that sort.  She is a tank.  She is a tank ribbed, joisted, stayed, but she is no greater mystery than a tank.  The Titanic was a tank eight hundred feet long, fitted as an hotel, with corridors, bed-rooms, halls, and so on (not a very mysterious arrangement truly), and for the hazards of her existence I should think about as strong as a Huntley and Palmer biscuit-tin.  I make this comparison because Huntley and Palmer biscuit-tins, being almost a national institution, are probably known to all my readers.  Well, about that strong, and perhaps not quite so strong.  Just look at the side of such a tin, and then think of a 50,000 ton ship, and try to imagine what the thickness of her plates should be to approach anywhere the relative solidity of that biscuit-tin.  In my varied and adventurous career I have been thrilled by the sight of a Huntley and Palmer biscuit-tin kicked by a mule sky-high, as the saying is.  It came back to earth smiling, with only a sort of dimple on one of its cheeks.  A proportionately severe blow would have burst the side of the Titanic or any other “triumph of modern naval architecture” like brown paper—­I am willing to bet.

I am not saying this by way of disparagement.  There is reason in things.  You can’t make a 50,000 ton ship as strong as a Huntley and Palmer biscuit-tin.  But there is also reason in the way one accepts facts, and I refuse to be awed by the size of a tank bigger than any other tank that ever went afloat to its doom.  The people responsible for her, though disconcerted in their hearts by the exposure of that disaster, are giving themselves airs of superiority—­priests of an Oracle which has failed, but still must remain the Oracle.  The assumption is that they are ministers of progress.  But the mere increase of size is not progress.  If it were, elephantiasis, which causes a man’s legs to become as large as tree-trunks, would be a sort of progress, whereas it is nothing but a very ugly disease.  Yet directly this very disconcerting catastrophe happened, the servants of the silly Oracle began to cry:  “It’s no use!  You can’t resist progress.  The big ship has come to stay.”  Well, let her stay on, then, in God’s name!  But she isn’t a servant of progress in any sense.  She is the servant of commercialism.  For progress, if dealing with the problems of a material world, has some sort of moral aspect—­if only, say, that of conquest,