talkative. There is nothing of the bluff and jolly tar about him. Indeed, I begin to doubt whether the jolly tar of song and story exists in real life. In none of those war-time ports have I found him. My companion is a dark, calm-faced young man, who looks like an engineer, but is not, with a wife and child over in South Shields. We are in a pub because there was no quiet corner for us in the trawl-owner's office, nor a more attractive place of refuge in the near neighbourhood. Also, the pub is handy if he should be wanted by his commander. Quite seriously, in answer to my inquiry, he declares himself T.T., port wine being a temperance beverage. We are served with two small glasses of blood-red hue. Gravely he nods and sips, and I do likewise. . . . If this be temperance, may the devil sign the pledge!

He is not talkative, no, but his slow words are awake with intelligence. There he sits in his jersey, rough trousers, and sea-boots, placidly smoking his Woodbine-he prefers it to my slightly dearer sort-and makes vivid little pictures without knowing it. By chance I was lookin' that way, and I see her go up in red and black smokefunnel seemed to jump out o' her-and then all sorts o' things began to fall down out o' the air.' He sips his port. Tis a pleasant drink. Wonder they wasn't all killed. 'Twas "lower away" on all the trawlers, and 'twas a proper race. Us got the old skipper-both his legs broke he was cursin' and swearin' when he ought to ha' been drowned. But he's doin' well in hospital.' 'No more mine-sweeping for him,' I venture. Ho, well, he says he's goin' back as soon as he can stand on both legs, one at a time. Why, there's a chap I knows of was blowed up three times, and he's still askin' for it.' It does not seem necessary to ask my friend of the clear, steadfast eyes what he would do should he be blown up three times; but I wonder what the young wife thinks about it all. The worst thing he has to say about the mine-sweeping is that it isn't exactly a picnic, and there is never a word about the enemy who laid the accursed things. And this modesty and dignity is so common among sea-faring men!

With a fine clarity which, somehow, gets muddied when the tale is put into fair English, he describes how

the mines are swept up and destroyed. It is the riskiest task in the world. He knows that; he neither magnifies nor belittles the risk; it is simply all in the day's work. His one grievance is that for four or five days at a stretch there is no chance of a bit o' fish.' I fancy he thinks of me a little more kindly when I mention that in my time I have eaten fish in an Iceland trawler's cabin. At any rate, he favours me with the sight of a letter from a friend who is mine-sweeping in the south. The letter tells mainly of the work and the weather, and asks about mutual acquaintances in North and South Shields. And then there is a P.S. Could do with a bit of fish.' One can almost hear the sigh in that P.S. It is the common sigh of all those trawlmen in the R.N.R. and R.N.V.R. to-day-those men working literally between the devil and the deep sea to protect our warships and commerce ships, without which Britain is undone-' a bit o' fish.'

Two hours having slipped out, I am suddenly awake to my lack of hospitality. I invite him to take another small glass. Don't mind; 'tis a pleasant drink,' he returns so amiably, that I would sip castor oil to keep him company. So we have a second dose, and then he looks at the clock. Shan't be wanted to-day now, so, if ye don't mind, I'll be gettin' across home,' he says, adding, "Fraid I haven't told ye anything worth while.' When I say I am indebted to him, he smiles kindly, unbelievingly. I go with him down to the ferry. On the landing-stage he does become talkative-about 'the kid.' The steamer comes in. We shake hands and I wish him luck. So long,' he says, and goes on board, and the steamer turns out to the tumbling Tyne. To-morrow the little fleet of trawlers, on one of which he serves, goes out once more to the mine-field. From the deck he waves his hand and turns his back to light a fresh Woodbine. Furtively I take off my hat.

Ay, the war is only beginning. New areas are being sown with enemy mines-who knows when and how? Who knows where, till a blast as from hell and a broken ship proclaim it? So more, and still more, trawlers are needed to sweep, more yachts, motor-boats, and other light craft to patrol, watch, warn, and-rescue. Do all

those men and boys love danger so much? Not every one of them is a fisherman used to the buffetings and bitterness of the North Sea. There are yachting men and boating men, and men of trades and professions who are just 'fond of the sea.' Some of them cannot in the smallest degree know what they are undertaking; some must, soon or late, break down under the rigours of the service. Are they less gallant because of their ignorance or lack of body strength? Are the fishermen, who predominate, less brave because of their knowledge? Of one thing at least none goes unaware that death may come with any tick of the clock; of another thing all are almost certain-that though stricken they may not strike back. Was ever such splendour of true manhood and quiet courage?

Shall ever failure be more gently remembered than the attempt to sweep the Narrows of the Dardanelles? Not once but thrice they try-seven little ships, manned mainly by fishermen as yet acquainted only with the war of the winds, the bombardment of the billows. Deliberately out of the night they steam into the dazzle of enemy searchlights that blaze athwart the minefield which has forbidden the armoured might of Britain. But it is the Impossible. Shelled by the enemy batteries, blinded by the glare, staggering amidst the lurking mines-the 'Manx Hero' strikes one and blows up-they can no more. 'But let no one dare to call these men cowards!' writes Mr Hurd; throughout the whole war these fishermen and their R.N.R. officers were never frightened of mines or submarines . . . but it was quite another matter to take these men straight from the North Sea and turn them, ordinary fishermen, into conspicuous targets for field-guns and forts. No harder or more dispiriting a task was ever set the vessels of the Auxiliary Patrol through the war than that of sweeping the Dardanelles Straits. The dice were so loaded against them that the sweepers had no chance.'

Already to the blind malice of the mines has been abundantly added the peeping malignance of the submarines. Bigger and bolder grow the U-boats, swifter and crueller. They haunt the North Sea; they raid the English Channel and the waters about Ireland; they

dare the Arctic; they reach the Mediterranean. Though the sinkings of ships are reported in the newspapers, though none of us can read of them undismayed, not one of us in a hundred thousand can apprehend how perilous is the situation. Some of us, indeed, are sadly troubled about the diluted bread, nasty bacon, lack of butter .. and wonder what things are coming to; but not in our worst moments do we suspect that our margin of safety is wearing as thin as our ration-books.* Of the Army's need for men and material the cry never ceases; of the Navy's, we catch scarce a whisper. Yet desperately do the ships of war and commerce need more protectors. So the order goes forth, untrumpeted, to the drifters.

The Drifters!-those funny little, slow-going, woodbuilt steamers, with their herring nets-what, in the names of Mars and Neptune, can they do? Ah, but what will they not attempt? For instance-if I may take the liberty of condensing two of Mr Hurd's inspiriting, nay, thrilling narratives-on an April morning, in the second year of the War, a little fleet of British drifters is lying in the harbour of Havre. Hark to their honourable names: Endurance,'' Welcome Star,'' Stately,' 'Comrades,'' Pleiades,' Pleasance.' Comes enemy submarine has been sighted outside. Nearly three hours must elapse ere the tide serves; then seaward they steam, find the likely place and shoot their nets. It is their lucky morning! Scarcely has 'Endurance' dropped the meshes when there are signs that she has caught something big, and presently up comes a periscope with such force as to disable her rudder. Endurance' sends up a rocket, its bang an intimation and explanation. Skilfully the skipper pays out net, but hampered by the useless

news that an

The anxieties of those responsible, of those who knew, can be comprehended only after reading 'Seaborne Trade,' especially vol. III, The Period of Unrestricted Submarine Warfare.' With the space at disposal, to quote from Mr. Fayle's history would be no compliment, and might even do an injustice to a work of such magnitude on so tremendous a subject-not that Mr Fayle has made it seem a heavy one. Statistics and all, it reads like a story, but a story to be pondered on, for Mr Fayle has shown, as, according to his preface to the first volume, he set out to show, how seaborne trade was affected during the war by naval operations and conditions having their origin in the naval situation.' And he has shown also how near to breaking-point we were, without knowing it.

rudder, is compelled to let go, and the U-boat, though enveloped, moves off. But the rocket signal has brought the other drifters closing in. They form a circle. The trap is shut. Arrives-in a deuce of a hurry, one may believe the French torpedo-boat Le Trombe.' She locates the captive, and drops three bombs. That does it. UB-26, badly damaged, comes up and surrenders. 'Welcome Star' and 'Stately' help to save the Germans. And that's that!

The scene changes to the Mediterranean. It is 9.15 on a January night, off Cape Otranto. Calistoga '—not a pretty name, but one can't have everything-has just got her nets in position when such a strain comes that her head is turned round. Not so the head of her skipper, William Stephen, R.N.R. Firing a rocket, he slips the nets and gives chase after the indicator buoy. Half a mile away, the drifter 'Dulcie Doris'-you wouldn't think she could hurt anything!-slips her nets and joins in. So does Evening Star,' lucky to be in the district. After a while, about five hundred yards ahead, the netted submarine breaks water. With her three-inch gun Dulcie Doris' lets Austrian U-boat VI have three good ones under the conning-tower, and 'Evening Star' adds a couple. The submarine lists over and begins to sink; her crew take to the water. All are savednaturally.

Alas, that it is not always thus. Attacked by Austrian cruisers and destroyers, blown up by mines, and bombed from the air, the toll of the drifters is grievously heavy. Yet they carry on-and the destruction of one U-boat means the safe passage of many a great ship.

With two or three stout souls on board, no craft, it would seem, is too small to take part in the game. Hear, therefore, the brief yarn of the 'Salmon,' a yarn which, thanks to Mr Hurd, so stirs the imagination that I cannot refrain from enlarging on it just a little. The Salmon,' as Mr Hurd tells us, is not a M.L., but a dayboat without a cabin. She is 40 feet long, with 8-foot beam, with a cockpit aft and a certain amount of space forward of the engine-room where a couple of men can turn in. She has, however, a speed of 20 knots, and is one of the six boats presented to the Admiralty by Mr