too hot, verifying her position and the position of the minefield, but always taking notes of every ship in sight, till towards teatime she saw our Navy off the entrance and “rose to the surface abeam of a French battleship who gave us a rousing cheer.”  She had been away, as nearly as possible, three weeks, and a kind destroyer escorted her to the base, where we will leave her for the moment while we consider the performance of E11 (Lieutenant-Commander M.E.  Nasmith) in the same waters at about the same season.

E11 “proceeded” in the usual way, to the usual accompaniments of hostile destroyers, up the Straits, and meets the usual difficulties about charging-up when she gets through.  Her wireless naturally takes this opportunity to give trouble, and E11 is left, deaf and dumb, somewhere in the middle of the Sea of Marmara, diving to avoid hostile destroyers in the intervals of trying to come at the fault in her aerial. (Yet it is noteworthy that the language of the Trade, though technical, is no more emphatic or incandescent than that of top-side ships.)

Then she goes towards Constantinople, finds a Turkish torpedo-gunboat off the port, sinks her, has her periscope smashed by a six-pounder, retires, fits a new top on the periscope, and at 10.30 A.M.—­they must have needed it—­pipes “All hands to bathe.”  Much refreshed, she gets her wireless linked up at last, and is able to tell the authorities where she is and what she is after.

MR. SILAS Q. SWING

At this point—­it was off Rodosto—­enter a small steamer which does not halt when requested, and so is fired at with “several rounds” from a rifle.  The crew, on being told to abandon her, tumble into their boats with such haste that they capsize two out of three.  “Fortunately,” says E11, “they are able to pick up everybody.”  You can imagine to yourself the confusion alongside, the raffle of odds and ends floating out of the boats, and the general parti-coloured hurrah’s-nest all over the bright broken water.  What you cannot imagine is this:  “An American gentleman then appeared on the upper deck who informed us that his name was Silas Q. Swing, of the Chicago Sun, and that he was pleased to make our acquaintance.  He then informed us that the steamer was proceeding to Chanak and he wasn’t sure if there were any stores aboard.”  If anything could astonish the Trade at this late date, one would almost fancy that the apparition of Silas Q. Swing ("very happy to meet you, gentlemen”) might have started a rivet or two on E11’s placid skin.  But she never even quivered.  She kept a lieutenant of the name of D’Oyley Hughes, an expert in demolition parties; and he went aboard the tramp and reported any quantity of stores—­a six-inch gun, for instance, lashed across the top of the forehatch (Silas Q. Swing must have been an unobservant journalist), a six-inch gun-mounting in the forehold, pedestals for twelve-pounders thrown in as dunnage, the afterhold full of six-inch projectiles, and a scattering of other commodities.  They put the demolition charge well in among the six-inch stuff, and she took it all to the bottom in a few minutes, after being touched off.