Four years had made a marked difference in the appearance of Tom Webb, formerly Tenderfoot of the Sea Scouts' yacht Petrel. Thanks to his preliminary training in the rudiments of seamanship and navigation acquired in the little ketch yacht, Webb had had no difficulty in being accepted for service in the trawler patrol soon after the outbreak of hostilities.

It was now that his Sea Scout training bore fruit. Self-reliant, and willing to undertake the most arduous tasks with the utmost good humour and alacrity, he quickly gained the goodwill of his superiors.

Two years in the North Sea in the trawler Zealous gave him plenty of experience and adventure, until the trawler came to an untimely end in an encounter with some German torpedo-boats, but not before she had sent one of them to the bottom. The outcome of this little "scrap", as far as Tom Webb was concerned, was that the ex-Tenderfoot was given a commission as Acting Sub-lieutenant, R.N.R., and appointed to the armed merchant-cruiser Portchester Castle.

It required a fair effort on Webb's part to carry out one portion of the Scout's creed and "keep smiling" as he mounted the bridge in this particular middle watch. Turning out of a comfortable bunk to do duty in an exposed, spray-swept post was not a matter of choice but of obligation.

Still dazed by the sudden transition from the electric light 'tween decks to the intense blackness of the night, Webb could just discern the figure of the Sub he was about to relieve.

"Mornin', Haynes!"

"Wish you well of it, my festive," was Dick Haynes's rejoinder. "Nothing to report. Here's the course. You ought to sight the Spanish coast in an hour or so. Well, so long, and good luck!"

The relieved Sub-lieutenant vanished down the bridge-ladder. Webb, muffled in his greatcoat, satisfied himself that the quartermasters were acquainted with the correct compass course, and received the usual report: "Screened light's burning, sir, and all's well."

This done he took up his position on the lee side of the bridge and, sheltered by the storm-dodger, gazed fixedly in the direction of the swelter of black water ahead of the labouring ship.

Slowly the minutes sped. The Portchester Castle, steaming at seventeen knots, rolled and plunged through the long waves without so much as the distant navigation lights of another vessel to break 

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