the face. “Oh no,” he replied, with an elaborate assumption of innocence. “But won’t you mix yourself a drink? And try one of my cigars, a present from a skipper friend of mine who sailed into Tilbury from Manila last week.” Desmond sat in the snug cabin, puffing a most excellent cigar and sipping his whiskey and soda while, amid much shouting of seamen and screaming of windlasses, the staff boat got clear. Presently they were gliding past long low moles and black, inhospitable lighthouses, threading their way through the dark shapes of war craft of all kinds into the open Channel. There was a good deal of swell, but the sea was calm, and the vessel soon steadied down to regular rise and fall. They had been steaming for nearly an hour when, through the open door of the cabin, Desmond saw a seaman approach the captain on the bridge. He handed the skipper a folded paper. “From the wireless operator, sir!” Desmond heard him say. The skipper scanned it. Then the engine telegraph rang sharply, there was the sound of churning water, and the vessel slowed down. The next moment the Captain appeared at the door of the cabin. “I’m afraid we’re going to lose you, Major,” he said pleasantly, “a destroyer is coming up to take you off. There was a wireless from the Admiral about you.” “Where are they going to take me, do you know?” asked Desmond. The Captain shook his head. “I haven’t an idea. I’ve only got to hand you over!” He grinned and added: “Where’s your kit?” “In the hold, I expect!” answered Desmond. “The porter at Victoria told me not to worry about it, and that I should find it on the other side. And, oh damn it!—I’ve got a hundred cigarettes in my kit, too! I bought them specially for the journey!” “Well, take some of my cigars,” said the skipper hospitably, “for your traps’ll have to go to France this trip, Major. There’s no time to get ’em up now. I’ll pass the word to the Military Landing Officer over there about ’em, if you like. He’ll take care of ’em for you. Now will you come with me?”
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