Elizabeth’s scandal must be fairly high flavoured, for a torpedo-boat of immoral aspect slings herself out of harbour and hastens to share it.  If Elizabeth has not spoken the truth, there may be words between the parties.  For the present a pencilled suggestion seems to cover the case, together with a demand, as far as one can make out, for “more common sweepers.”  They will be forthcoming very shortly.  Those at work have got the run of the mines now, and are busily howking them up.  A trawler-skipper wishes to speak to the Office.  “They” have ordered him out, but his boiler, most of it, is on the quay at the present time, and “ye’ll remember, it’s the same wi’ my foremast an’ port rigging, sir.”  The Office does not precisely remember, but if boiler and foremast are on the quay the rest of the ship had better stay alongside.  The skipper falls away relieved. (He scraped a tramp a few nights ago in a bit of a sea.) There is a little mutter of gun-fire somewhere across the grey water where a fleet is at work.  A monitor as broad as she is long comes back from wherever the trouble is, slips through the harbour mouth, all wreathed with signals, is received by two motherly lighters, and, to all appearance, goes to sleep between them.  The Office does not even look up; for that is not in their department.  They have found a trawler to replace the boilerless one.  Her name is slid into the rack.  The immoral torpedo-boat flounces back to her moorings.  Evidently what Elizabeth Huggins said was not evidence.  The messages and replies begin again as the day closes.

THE NIGHT PATROL

Return now to the inner harbour.  At twilight there was a stir among the packed craft like the separation of dried tea-leaves in water.  The swing-bridge across the basin shut against us.  A boat shot out of the jam, took the narrow exit at a fair seven knots and rounded in the outer harbour with all the pomp of a flagship, which was exactly what she was.  Others followed, breaking away from every quarter in silence.  Boat after boat fell into line—­gear stowed away, spars and buoys in order on their clean decks, guns cast loose and ready, wheel-house windows darkened, and everything in order for a day or a week or a month out.  There was no word anywhere.  The interrupted foot-traffic stared at them as they slid past below.  A woman beside me waved her hand to a man on one of them, and I saw his face light as he waved back.  The boat where they had demonstrated for me with matches was the last.  Her skipper hadn’t thought it worth while to tell me that he was going that evening.  Then the line straightened up and stood out to sea.

“You never said this was going to happen,” I said reproachfully to my A.B.

“No more I did,” said he.  “It’s the night-patrol going out.  Fact is, I’m so used to the bloomin’ evolution that it never struck me to mention it as you might say.”