Little Grey Ships/Mine-Sweepers

a long spell of bitter fury the nor'easter was showing signs of exhaustion; the snow had ceased. In the fading light of the December afternoon, however, the North Sea, so mysterious an expanse in these days, was still a tumult of grey and white; tatters of cloud travelled express; billows burst over the breakwater; and now and then, even in the inner harbour, a vicious blast set the water smoking. Within the harbours were many craft, trawlers and steam-drifters, mostly laid-up —only a few of each class apparently ready for sea.

A yellow-funnelled trawler, which had rolled in a few hours earlier, was discharging the results of ten days' battling with the weather over the Icelandic banks. The fish were fetching an extraordinary price, but surely you would have forgotten to call them dear had you seen the Pelican as she tumbled into port—bows, deck, masts, stays, crusted with frozen snow and frozen brine. Among other things her boat had gone, snatched from its lashings on the after-deck by a swamping sea.

Skipper John Smith, more widely known as Lucky Jack, was inclined to brood over the loss of his boat: minor mishaps and any amount of bodily discomfort were all in the day's work. He had recently come on deck, a fine figure of health, freshly shaven and smelling of soap, garbed in fawn-hued trousers of extremely heavy stuff covered to the knees by enormously thick stockings, massive boots still unlaced, gaudy braces over a dark blue jersey. In the lee of the deck-house, smoking a cigarette, he was chatting with a young R.N.R. man, a stranger, brown-faced, with gold rings in his ears, who had dropped on board in the hope of securing some fresh fish for himself and shipmates.

“Ho, I never was one to cuss at nothin',” the skipper was saying, “but when that boat went, I tell ye I let meself go. Even the boys, swimmin' about on the gushin deck, seekin' to lay hold on somethin' handy, heard me—and laughed!”

“Yes; but ye wasn't the only one to ketch the gale,” remarked the R.N.R. man. “Look over at that destroyer wi' 'er ventilators busted flat and 'er bridge rails twisted like 'airpins. And 'er chaps is merry as sandboys whilst they look to the torpedoes, and test the fuses, and”

“Grant ye, we've all got to take our share,” Lucky Jack grunted. “Your ship?”

“No, no; mine's yonder.” With a chuck of his head the R.N.R. man indicated a delicate-looking craft lying against the opposite quay. “Ain't she a beauty?”

“All that!” the skipper admitted. “... Patrol duty?”

“And scoutin'.” The man with the earrings smiled. “'Tis amazin' the sea she can stand, too. Ye wouldn't ever believe it. All the same, boss, ye are lucky to be where ye are.”

Lucky Jack growled. “Never had no luck since the war started.” He lit a fresh cigarette and handed one to his visitor. “And I was 'bout the fust to learn what war meant.”

“'Ow was that?”

“Why, the Elizabeth Mary was sent to the bottom and we was all took prisoners.”

“Wot?”

“Not heard about it? Must ha' been in Germany!... Listen now! We was up Iceland way. 'Twas three days after the war started. But we never knowed there was any war—not till one o' them converted cruisers comes along and holds us up.”

“Really? ”

“Yes, as really as I've got fish on board!”

“Well, I wants fish, but I wants yer story too.”

“Ho, 'tisn't much o' a story. We had to shift ourselves pretty smart. Only keepsake I got from the old boat was the key o' the medicine chest. Queer what a man will grab at the last minute! Then, as soon as we was aboard the converted cruiser, they lets fly at my poor, unconverted trawler—thirty-seven shots—thirty-five hits”

“Fairish shootin'!”

“Somehow we didn't cheer.... But I will say, they treated us fust-rate, and we got home—by a roundabout rowt—afore long. Still, I'd ha' liked fine to ha' got just one shot back.”

The R.N.R. man regarded the skipper with a certain respect. “Ye 'ave 'ad yer share, too, I'll admit,” he said. “And now, boss, concernin' that bit o' fish—afore it all goes to London town for the swell restewrants”

A hoarse hoot came on the wind. Both men looked round the corner of their shelter.

“One o' them mine-sweepers,” remarked Lucky Jack. “Should ha' been in yesterday, they tell me—her and her chum.”

“Wust job o' the lot! Never know the minute when ye're goin' up. Plenty 'ave gone up by now.”

“True enough. But we're all takin' risks wi' them blasted mines about.”

The earrings wagged. “No risks like the sweepers' risks! Why, boss, they're removin' our risks, ain't they? They can't remove 'em all, wuss luck!—but I reckon they 'ave saved many and many a good ship and thousands o' souls from goin' bang to blazes. Think o' the battleships and cruisers and so on—not to mention the blessed trawlers”

“I only meant to say as how we're all takin' risks, more or less,” interrupted the skipper, shortly.

“Just so! The mine-sweepers more, the rest o' us less. By gravy, if the shore people knowed and understood wot the chaps on them mine-sweepers was doin', they'd be cheerin' and makin' collections and writin' poetry—and so forth. I 'low it's difficult to think o' all the 'eroes nowadays; they're that many. All the same, I proposes the mine-sweeper lads!”

“Well, well, I seconds the motion.... Was wonderin' what trawler she might be,” Lucky Jack went on, gazing. “I'll take a look round when she's berthed. They'll be wantin' a bit o' fish, no doubt. Terrible to be trawl-men livin' on a trawler and gettin' no fresh fish—nothin' but them cussed mines.”

“Talkin' o' fish,” began the R.N.R. man

“Oh, come forrard and get yer blushin' fish!” said the skipper, good-humouredly.

“Thank ye. But I takes the liberty o' sayin', fish or no fish, that the mine-sweeper chaps are first-class 'eroes!”

“We'll leave it at that. Still, I don't hold wi' callin' good men names. However, I'm goin' round to see what they're like.”

The mine-sweeping trawler, a sombre thing in the dreary dusk, was staggering and yawing past the head of the breakwater. Presently she recovered her balance, as it were, and within ten minutes was alongside the quay. Ere she was made fast a young lieutenant, very spick and span, sprang ashore and passed swiftly up the quay, without a glance to right or left.

Lucky Jack looked curiously after him, then turned to the trawler.

“That Bob Twenty?” he called to a figure clambering down from the little wheel-house.

“Sure,” answered the figure over its shoulder. “Lucky Jack?”

“That was,” replied the other, his resentment at the loss of his small boat reviving at the prospect of a new listener. “I'll come aboard.”

“Hold on, Jack. I'm comin' ashore.” He came, an oldish man, short and bearded. The two shook hands; they had not met for months.

“Didn't know ye was takin' a hand in the game, Bob,” Lucky Jack began. “Since when”

“Since the beginnin'—when I was called.” Bob glanced around. “We'll move on a bit. Them chaps is too curious.”

They left the groups of idlers to stare at the trawler.

“Any mines this trip?” inquired Lucky Jack, forgetting his own affairs.

“Four.”

“Not so bad. They tell me you shoot 'em?”

“Ay. We sunk two, and one blowed up.”

“That's three. What did ye do wi' the other?”

The older man hesitated. “As soon not talk about it.”

“Missed it?”

“Not exactly.”

“Not supposed to tell—eh?”

“We'll not talk about it, Jack.”

“Ho, all right.” Jack lit a cigarette. “Ha' ye left yer chum far behind?”

“The other sweeper? Oh, yes. A longish way—a longish way.”

“Don't expect her in to-night? What's her name?”

“She was the Catherine Last. But—but this ain't her port—any more.” He gripped the younger man's arm. “See here, Jack, she'll never see any port no more. The fourth mine got her.... There! I've been and told ye!”

After a moment or two had passed—“But all saved, I hope,” said Lucky Jack, gently.

The other shook his head. “Three saved—one sore hurt. Blown into two pieces, she was.”

“Damn them mines and the men as dropped 'em!”

“Well, well... I'd best be gettin' aboard, in case I'm wanted.”

Lucky Jack made no attempt to speak till they were once more at the quay-side. Then he whispered

“Why, it might ha' been you, Bob!”

“Just as likely.”

“Hell! I wish ye'd tell the whole story.”

“'Tis a story what oughter be told—but I can't tell it to-night.”

Jack coughed. “Goin' on wi' the sweepin'?”

“Why not?”

Jack coughed again. “I'd maybe ha' taken yer job.... Well, I'll be sendin' ye round a bit o' fish. So long!”

Skipper Bob Twenty groaned as he tore off another—the fifth—telegraph form. Filling in an address, he groaned again. He did not appear to hear the brisk descent of Skipper John Smith—Lucky Jack—and took no notice of his entering the trawler's snug cabin.

“Mornin',” said Lucky Jack, seating himself on the opposite locker. “Come to hear about them mines.”

“Ye'll ha' to wait a bit, Jack,” Bob returned, without looking up. “I'm busy.”

“Ye look it. Ye're sweatin'. No innard trouble, I trusts?”

“Sore trouble. Wire from the old woman. Seems to ha' heard o' the Mowin' up o' our chum, the Catherine Last. Says I ha' got to drop this mine-sweepin' job.”

Lucky Jack lit a cigarette. “Well, 'twas to be expected. The women”

“'Tis not every woman would want her man to drop the sweepin',” the other interrupted, a trifle sharply. “What are ye laughin' at?”

“Ho, nothin', Bob. And now I s'pose ye are tryin' for to send her a softish answer.”

“I don't want to go and hurt her feelin's, and the address uses up six words.”

Lucky Jack seemed to appreciate the difficulty. “S'pose we ha' some talk 'bout the mines, and give yer brains a rest,” he suggested. “I don't like to see a man sweatin' like you are.”

Bob Twenty shook his grizzled head. “She says 'answer immediate,' and I've been labourin' on it for close on two hours. See here, Jack!” He took some papers from his pocket. “Read them two letters and keep quiet whilst I make another try. Chap, when he wrote the first, wasn't aware I was an older hand at the job than hisself; thought I was still at the fishin'. He's on a destroyer at present, along o' the sweepers. Good chap; maybe ye'll know him.”

The visitor nodded and took the letters.

“Go ahead wi' yer wire, Bob. I'll not disturb ye again.”

He proceeded to read:

“Dear Friend—Just a line to let you know we are still living. We are having a rare time of it; but I wish it was all over. This is a tiresome job. We are out two days and in two days; but we are clear of all the trawlers, so we can't get a fry. We haven't had a bit of fish since we have been away. I would sooner be trawling any time than this job. We are going out after a submarine which is reported off. One of our drifters ploughed a mine up yesterday, but we have not seen one yet. I should like to see one to see what they are like; but I expect we shall see one before we are done; perhaps feel one. We are patrolling close to the mine fields off the, so I have nothing more to tell you this time.”

Lucky Jack refolded this epistle with the murmured remark that the writer appeared to be taking things quite calm-like, and spread out the second.

“Dear Friend,—I received your welcome letter, and it was very good of you for to be so obliging. If it is no trouble to you I would be glad of a bit of fish, as we can't get any here, not where we are laying. You was talking about the mines. We have just come in after doing for two. Yesterday dinner-time we were 30 miles E.N.E. of, and there was a nice breeze, so we turned around, and was going inshore again when we saw a mine about sixty yards away. So we began to operate on him with four rifles and the big gun. I was the lucky one to hit him. He went up, as I thought, two miles, and filled our decks with water. So we started again for about a quarter of an hour, when we spotted another one; but we fired away at him and pierced him, and he sunk. In all we fired 230 rounds with rifles and 12 with the big gun. It wasn't bad shooting, but it was the sea; you couldn't get a mark at them. I think there is more about there somewhere, but the weather was too bad to see them; but we shall have another look when we go away on Friday. They are ugly things, so we have done a bit of good, and I hope we shall do a bit more before we are done.... P.S.—They have got five spikes on them, and you have to hit one of the spikes before they go up.”

Lucky Jack laid the letters on the table, remarking: “Don't know the chap, but I sorter like his style. He deserves his bit o' fish when he gets it, anyway.”

“So he does,” said the older skipper, looking up from his task with the sigh of an exhausted man. “Well, if she's offended, I can't help it, Jack.”

“'Tis hard to please 'em, however ye puts it, Bob. Words seem to ha' different meanin's to women from men. Well, now, I want ye to explain them five spikes, or horns. And I thought ye couldn't see the mines in the water.”

“He must ha' come on some floatin' mines—mines, maybe, that had broke loose from their moorin's.”

“What's the mine like?”

“I'd call it sorter pear-shaped, wi' a flattish top. Some o' the mines are built to go off when they're moved 45 degrees off the perpendicular. So a ship strikin' one has a poorish chance, for the charge is strong enough to blow the guts out o' a battleship.”

Lucky Jack gave his head a wag. “Should like to see one go up.... But I don't understand them needin' so many shots as the letter says, though 'twas bad weather.”

“That's easy explained, my lad. A good shot, or a lucky one, on one o' the horns—and up he goes! But failin' that, he wants a good many rifle bullet holes—below his water-line, mind ye—before he takes in water enough to sink him quick. Then, when he does sink, he leaves the sea fizzin' and boilin'. But if he gets exploded he throws it up, maybe not two mile, but surely two hundred feet. 'Tis not safe to be inside o' a hundred yards when he goes. Get yer glass broken, if nothin' wuss.” Bob Twenty paused, fingering the telegram.

“Go ahead, Bob. What about the sweepin' for the sunken mines?”

“Think I'd best be gettin' along to the post office wi' this wire.”

“I'll step along wi' ye, and afterwards ye'll come and eat yer dinner on the Pelican.”

The old skipper shook his head. “You'll eat yer dinner wi' me.... I'd best be at hand. She'll maybe wire again. 'Sides, I've got a young fellow on board that saw the blowin' up o' the Sunburst. He'll tell ye easier 'bout the Sunburst than I could tell ye 'bout the Catherine Last. 'Twill be a day or two, I think, afore I care to talk 'bout her. Now we'll get along.”

Ashore, Lucky Jack ventured to inquire whether the other had managed to concoct a telegraphic message to his taste.

“Not to me taste, by no means, Jack. But I hopes she'll see what I'm drivin' at.”

Passing a newsagent's, they read in big letters: “Two Steamers Mined in North Sea.”

Bob groaned once more. “She'll surely see that, too, and 'twill make her wuss.”

They entered the little telegraph office on the quay. The clerk, a girl, was young and indiscreet. She read Bob's message aloud:

“Duty is duty with kind love Bob.”

Bob flung down a sixpence and hurried out, perspiring.

“Sounded sorter foolish.” he muttered.

“A softish answer, but not too soft,” said Lucky Jack, gravely.

After dinner, Skipper Bob Twenty, though still somewhat disposed to absence of mind, enlightened his guest on the practice of mine sweeping. His observations, which in detail would not pass the Censor, embodied this fact:

The trawlers told off for duty over a special area, fully equipped and accoutred, to track down and deal with the infernal machines that may have been sown, pursue a concerted policy, and are directed in their operations by an officer specially appointed for that purpose.

“But what 'bout the mine-fields? Lucky Jack inquired; “how do they discover 'em?”

“Suspicion, maybe; most likely through some unlucky craft advertisin' 'em by blowin' up. When we locates a field”

“Ye go ahead and make it dashed well barren!”

“Not always so, Jack; depends where it is. There's fields out yonder we ha' merely surveyed, so to speak, markin' their positions very careful, so as to give warnings and so forth. I don't say as how we may not ha' trimmed the edges o' such fields, but if they can be let alone wi'out extra special danger to navigation, then we lets 'em alone—for the present. Plenty to do, clearin' the reg'lar channels o' mines, and keepin' 'em clear. And ye may take my word for it that more'n one ship has gone up lately through simple winkin' at good advice and instructions, either because the skipper sorter disbelieved the warnin' or was mad for to save time and coal. 'Tis a grand thing to be bold, if so ye can be wi'out bein' damn foolish besides. The Admiralty only asks ships to keep on the safe side which it has tried to provide for 'em—and I don't see what more it can do.”

“The Admiralty has left us poor trawlers precious little o' the North Sea,” Lucky Jack growled. “The new chart is mostly all red for prohibited areas.”

“They must ha' left you enough to make ye forget we're at war! Ye talk as if ye had never been caught by the Germans, nor seen yer trawler sunk by German guns! Ye talk like a complainin' child, Lucky Jack”

“Only wanted to see how ye'd take it, Bob.”

“Well, I takes it serious. And if ye disobey the warnin's and get sent higher'n ye ever hoped, for God's sake don't complain!... Some folk ha' got a notion,” continued Bob, “that the mines is sowed all in nice, neat rows, like cabbages, which bein' so, a ship might truly pass betwixt two rows. But it so happens that them gentle Germans don't sow mines for ships to pass through. Grant ye, they may leave a goodish distance betwixt each mine—'cause, bein' economical, they knows the concussion o' one might set off others, wasteful-like, if they was too close. But they do sow 'em just so that a ship gettin' into the field has the best possible chance o' strikin' one sooner or later. See?”

“Ye do make it wondrous clear, Bob! And what depth do they moor the mines?”

“I ha' reckoned it six to nine feet. They're said to be fitted wi' an automatic contraption as makes 'em keep steady 'bout the same distance from the surface, high water or low. But, thank God, even the devil hisself can't count on everything goin' smooth and perfect, and I dare say more'n one good ship has 'scaped through a hitch somewheres.... I wonder if that old woman o' mine is goin' to send me another wire.”

“Keep talkin', and ye'll maybe forget about her. Now here's a question for ye. What happens when the sweep comes on a mine?”

“Why,” said Bob, making an effort to follow his friend's advice, “what we wants to happen is for the sweep to break the moorin's and let the mine come to the top—and it happens mostly so. But sometimes the sweep touches off the mine, either by catchin' on his horns or by merely tiltin' him—we never know which.”

“Big splash?”

“Not if he's down deepish. Then the sea just bulges wi' a curious huge swell as would certainly give a ship a staggerer, if she chanced to be a-sittin' on the spot. 'Tis a queer sight, I must say, to see the water move so, 'specially in a calm. And the sound comes dullish and sickenin'—leastways 'tis sickenin' to me, though I can't tell ye why. In the engine-room 'tis much clearer and stronger.... But now, Jack, there's things I got to do ashore, for we're puttin' out again at daybreak. No, no; stop where ye are. The young fellow I told ye 'bout is comin' aft to tell his yarn o' how the Sunburst went up. And here he comes!”

But it was the mate who appeared, back from a few hours' leave, a red-faced, keeneyed man, with a bristly black moustache. Nodding to the visitor, he threw on the table an early edition of a local evening paper.

“'Nother gone,” he said, dabbing his forefinger on a small paragraph. “Also, there's a woman on the quay waitin' for a word wi' the skipper.”

At any other time Lucky Jack would probably have sniggered. Now, along with the older man, he was peering at the paper. “Trawler Strikes Mine in North Sea—One Saved” was the heading of a curt telegram announcing the destruction of a mine-sweeper. The survivor's name was not given.

There was silence in the cabin until the mate said: “The woman up there, she says she's the mother o' a lad on that same sweeper. Thinks ye might be able to tell her something.”

Bob Twenty looked up. “Me? How could I tell her aught?”

“That's what I says to her. But she's got the notion in her head, 'cause this happens to be a mine-sweeper likewise.”

The skipper rose slowly, and stood hesitating. At last—“There's worse things to face 'n mines,” he muttered, “but 'twouldn't be fair to keep her waitin'. So long, Lucky Jack.”

As he set foot on the quay the woman came to him. A shawl partially concealed a smooth, comely, healthy face which, however, had a bleached appearance.

“You're the captain? You've read the paper?”

He nodded or, rather, bowed his head.

“Only one spared, and I don't know if he's mine,” she said, but without evident emotion.

“What was your boy's name?” Bob asked her.

She told him, and he shook his head. “I can tell ye no more'n ye know, poor soul,” he said, pitifully.

“I was hoping,” she said, still steadily, “you could have told me he had been doin' well—his work—his duty, I mean.”

The deep-set eyes under the shaggy brows regarded her kindly. “Surely,” said Bob Twenty, “surely, whether he's livin' or dead, ye can feel he has done his duty—now.”

She gazed back at him till all at once the tears came. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, and, drawing her shawl closer, went swiftly up the quay.

This is the yarn extracted from Skipper Bob Twenty's “young fellow” by Skipper Lucky Jack, in a dusky corner of a quayside tavern, over a discreet quantity of exceeding luscious port wine, which any ordinary seafaring man will assure you is a teetotal drink. Outside in the early darkness sleet was falling pitilessly. The lamps would remain unlighted. Hoots and bellows and wails came from the shrouded water; a cart rattled; a motor-lorry panted and rumbled over the cobbles; now and then the narrow, sloppy pavement resounded dully to hurried footfalls. These sounds may have given the tavern a sense of comfort which it did not naturally possess. Grudgingly, as it seemed, the man behind the bar turned up a couple of gas jets. It was too early for much custom, and nowadays custom generally was not what it used to be. After a lack-lustre, uninterested glance at the two men in the corner, he relighted a half-smoked cigarette and retired to an inner room, where there was, no doubt, a fire.

The features of the young fellow, who was really about thirty, though undistinguished individually, combined to form an attractive countenance, clean-shaven, and blessed with a frank and ready smile. Something about him—possibly the white cloth knotted about his neck—suggested the engine-room or stokehold. As a matter of fact, he had been a stoker, was now owner of a second engineer's ticket, and was looking forward to obtaining a first's—when the war came. His ship being blown up, he found work on a mine-sweeper as an ordinary seaman. “My fingers didn't like the deck work at first,” was apparently his only serious objection to the change.

He accepted one of Lucky Jack's cigarettes, spat neatly into the sawdust, nodded, took a mouthful of port, and said:

“I knows a man as could tell ye 'bout the Sunburst—only he's in hospital. Ye see, he was on board when she went up.”

“Guess your yarn'll suit me well enough, seein' ye saw it happen. Ye did really see it?”

“Sure! But I'm no hand at tellin' what I've seen. Never know where to begin. Besides, there's things I don't ought to tell—and shan't!”

“Ho, I understand all that. A—ye wasn't on Bob Twenty's trawler at the time, was ye?” said Lucky Jack, fumbling for a leading question.

“No. 'Twas the Balaclava o'. She went ashore in a gale, month ago, and I got shifted.”

“Well?”

“She was a wench, the Balaclava. When she rolled sorter heavy she'd scoop the water over her lee something shockin'. Maybe ye know her skipper—Dancin' Billy. He”

“Yes, yes. But tell me now, when was it the Sunburst went up?”

“Couple o' months ago. 'Twas in the afternoon—gettin' darkish. But I see it all clear enough.”

“What did ye see?”

“Her goin' up, bunkers and all.”

With an effort Lucky Jack curbed his impatience and said softly: “S'pose ye tell me all what happened that day—except, o' course, what wouldn't be right to tell.”

The young fellow pushed back his cap and scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said at last, “we got up anchor in the first minute o' the dawn”

“Anchored, was ye?”

“Always lays inshore o' nights. No use lookin' in the dark for things ye can't see in the daylight.”

“Right! Go ahead!”

“Well, we followed the A ship, a destroyer, to the place where we had discovered mines previous day. 'Twas a fine mornin', wi' a fresh breeze. A little bit o' sea on, but nothin' to speak about. The place bein' marked, we picked it up quick and easy.”

He paused so long that Lucky Jack's lips were shaping to utter a “Well?” Then, abruptly, he resumed, every now and then switching his telling into the present tense.

“So A ship drops her anchor, and us trawlers gets in touch wi' our chums, takes our positions accordin' to orders, and prepares our tackle. There was just enough sea for to make the fixin' o' the sweep a ticklish job. Our end being fast to the kite, we floats a buoy wi' a line to our chum, and so, at last, after some cussin', our chum gets his end o' the sweep. I'm no good at explainin', and ye'll just ha' to make the most o' it.... Well, then, we starts ahead, the three pair o' us. This time 'twas a case o' bustin' up a whole field, which was in an extra bad place for navigation. Couldn't tell ye its exact size, but seemed to me 'twas some miles long, but not so broad. So there we was, steamin' along, wi' our look-outs hurlin' their eyes, though, to be sure, there was a small chance o' spottin' anything, unless, maybe, a mine what had been badly moored—and even so, 'twould ha' shown little o' itself in that sea till too late. However, 'tis best to obey instructions, every word: saves havin' to cuss yerself later on.” The speaker finished his port and took a packet of cigarettes from the lining of his cap.

“'Nother drop?” Lucky Jack hospitably inquired.

“You ha' one wi' me—and then no more. That stuff makes me too thirsty. Used to drink anything, but there's the wife and two kiddies, and so on. Them kiddies...”

At the end of three minutes Lucky Jack gently but firmly interposed.

“Was it long afore ye come upon the mines?”

“Oh, the mines!... Why, we was most curious unlucky that day. We sweeps and we sweeps for hours and hours, and gets nothin' at all. And in the same time the old Sunburst and her chum gets seventeen!”

“By God!” murmured Lucky Jack.

“'Twas good enough sweepin'. Two of 'em went off under water, and one just as he was comin' to top. 'Twas a spouter!”

“And they would ha' to shoot the rest?”

“Every one. Good fun, too. Some goes down bubblin'; others goes up in fire and smoke, wi' the noise o' big guns. One of the sweepers got rather near, and she hadn't a whole glass left in the wheel-house, and her skipper fell flat. Only the concussion, ye understand. Powerfullish things they are. Well, as I was tellin' ye, we was most curious unlucky. In the afternoon, 'bout four o'clock, we did sweep up one o' the devils, and a good rifle shot from the mate hits him fair on a horn and sends him to glory. We all says the luck has turned, but next minute or so we somehow fouls our propeller wi' the hawser, and has to lay to.... So there we was, workin' like blazes to get the dashed thing clear, and wonderin' how soon we'd drift on to a mine. And we felt like fools, too, at gettin' put out o' action in such a soft-like way. However, A ship orders our chum to give us a tow out o' the danger zone, and we was makin' ready for that—when the thing happened.” Here the narrator halted to relight his cigarette, and, having done so, seemed to forget the matter in hand.

“Go ahead, mate.”

“Oh, well, then—well, ye've got to understand that the Sunburst and her chum was 'bout a mile away to the west'ard. They'd got no more mines for an hour or so. They was comin' towards us, and I remember we was all feelin' sorter jealous, for they'd broke the record—at that time, anyway. But I can't tell ye what made me look up from the line I was gettin' ready.... But I looks up, and there's the old Sunburst a-spewin' up her inside wi' fire and reek, and in the smoke, high up, I sees black things fallin'—fallin'—machinery and coals and maybe worse. Then the bang comes, and everybody looks; and then there's never a sound for a longish time. ... The mine had exploded 'gainst her starboard side, just below the winches. 'Tis likely her bows had missed it by a foot or so, and she had slid past till one o' its horns touched her, and then—well, that's all.”

“But,” said Lucky Jack, after a moment, “what did ye do? What did the other sweepers do?”

“Why, o' course, they all started top-speed for the Sunburst. But A ship calls for 'em to stop. S'pose she was right, fearin' they'd go slap into other mines. But what the hell did anybody care for mines then? Well, 'twas boats out. Ours was in the water 'bout as soon as the skipper give the word; and 'volunteers' wasn't half out o' his mouth when the boat was manned. Dunno exactly how I got there. Didn't drop nor jump—just tumbled, I s'pose—and next I knew, I had an oar in me hand. Don't think none o' us ever pulled so hard in our lives, and when someone in another boat, losin' his head, yells 'Mine ahead!' we just keeps on. 'Twas no mine, after all; just something blowed out o' the poor old Sunburst. And there she was, heelin' over, half her side tore away, and her inside still smokin', and I thinks I hear the sea roarin' into her. She lasted but a few minutes. Went down wi' small fuss.”

“And the chaps on board her?”

“Our boat took three from the water, and another boat took one, badly hurt. The rest we never saw no signs of. We saved the skipper. His leg was smashed something cruel. Some o' us felt sickish. Doctors is still tryin' to save it for him; but they makes no promises.”

“If 'twas saved, think he'd go back to the sweepin'?”

“Couldn't say. There was a skipper from got blowed up, but not sore hurt, and as soon as he was fit he offered hissel' again, and they took him. But once he was 'mong the mines again he found his nerve was all broke, so he had to give up. 'Tis a curious job, the mine sweepin'. Well, now,”—the young fellow rose—“must say so long, wishin' ye best o' luck.”

“Goin' back to the ship now?”

“Got to go to the shops. Christmas, ye know; and them kiddies'll be startin' to look for the postman.”

“Not seen 'em for a while?”

“Five weeks to-morrow.”

Lucky Jack opened the door. “We'll be layin' here over Christmas Day. Where are ye eatin' yer Christmas dinner?”

The young fellow smiled. “I doubt 'twill be among the mines,” he said. “So long.”

Morning of Christmas Eve, early, and a change in the weather. A still air and a clear sky full of twinkling stars. On street and quay an icy film overspreading the slush. Here and there a glimmer of light from harboured ship or dwelling-house, but never a lamp for guidance of mariner or landsman. On the point across the bay, dim and ghostly, a great lighthouse—blind. And beyond, heaving, groaning, bleak and dark, with all its secrets, the North Sea.

Lucky Jack, his short sea-boots crackling and splashing through film and slush, came from the inner harbour, whistling softly. At the little post office situated at the end of a long row of fish-sheds he halted and drew out a letter. With the aid of a match he re-read the address as though to make quite sure that all was in order. Then, when the match failed, he dropped in the letter, and, still whistling softly, proceeded along the quay.

Presently he was looking down on Bob Twenty's mine-sweeper. There was some stir on board. On the deck, by the in different lights of a couple of lanterns, men were doing things. He hailed the nearest.

“Skipper about?”

“I'll see.” The man moved aft.

“Tell him 'tis Lucky Jack.”

“I knows.” Returning, the messenger said: “Skipper says, will ye step below?”

Thereupon Lucky Jack appeared to fall forward from the edge of the quay, caught a stay, and landed lightly on the deck.

“How d'ye like the mine-sweepin'?” he asked the man, a small and by no means robust-looking person of middle age.

“'Tis a job, anyway, and not so bad pay. Was hearin' ye had brought in a fortune o' fish t'other day—over a thousand pounds' worth.”

“Eleven-forty-odds.... Not feared o' the mines?”

“Ho, yes, lots!” A half laugh. “Think there's many o' us not feared?”

“Well, I dunno. Ye don't show it much.”

“Feared to show it, maybe.”

“Why d'ye do it?”

“Couldn't say for sure.” The man turned back to his task, mumbling over his shoulder: “Next best job to fightin' the Germans—eh?”

Lucky Jack discovered his friend in the bright cabin intent on the fastening of a strip of “stamp paper” across the flap of an envelope which had refused to do its duty. A coffee-pot stood on the table.

“Thought I'd try for a word wi' ye, Bob, afore ye cast off.”

“Glad to see ye. Help yerself.”

The visitor poured himself a mug. “Wife been wirin' again?” he asked, sympathetically.

Bob Twenty shook his grizzled head.

“That's good!” his friend commented.

“Well, 'tis not so good, neither. Thought 'twas good at first, but now, ye see, I don't know what she's thinkin'.”

“Take a lot o' wires to tell ye what a woman's thinkin'.”

Bob ignored the cynicism. “There'll be a letter from her wi' the mornin' post, but we'll be at sea afore it comes.”

“That's not so good, I'll allow.... Want me to post that letter for ye?”

With a suspicion of hesitation Bob handed it over the table. “Ye won't forget?”

“Not likely. Been postin' one on me own account this mornin',” said Lucky Jack, very casually.

“Didn't know ye was a married man, Jack.”

“'Tisn't so bad as that.... Was talkin' wi' one o' yer crew up there. Queer little chap. Says he's afraid, and he don't know why he's mine-sweepin'.”

“What's he like?”

“Smallish, oldish”

“Why, that chap's been blowed up twice—once on a trawler off, then on a sweeper. But he don't yarn 'bout it. That's why I didn't put ye on to him yesterday.”

“But he says he's afraid!”

“No shame in bein' afraid, so long's ye keep goin' forrard. How did ye get along wi the young fellow yesterday?”

“Ho, he coughed it up all right 'bout the Sunburst. Much obliged to him, and yerself, likewise. After I left him I fell across Happy Henry”

“Him? How's he doin'?”

“Not so bad. Says he's lost two stone since the war started. Only weighs sixteen now, and amazin' light on his feet. Livin' on shore, waitin' for a new trawler that's fittin' out for him—all modern conveniences and so forth, and a fust-class cook. Hopes to be goin' up Iceland way in 'bout a fortnight.”

“What's wrong wi' his old ship?”

“Blowed up.”

“Never heard o' that.”

“Henry isn't exac'ly proud o' the affair. Says, if he could get rid o' a few more stones, he'd take to sweepin' for revenge. Says he wouldn't mind gettin' blowed overboard if he could be certain o' floatin' right end up.”

“But what 'bout his old ship?”

“I'll tell ye what Henry told me—and he looked too sad for to be tellin' a lie. 'Twas month o' November, and they had started out for the fishin', and 'twas a fine, clear day, and nothin' whatever in sight—till somebody spots a dan in the water. Now 'twas an odd part o' the sea for a dan to be in, and they supposed, natural enough, 'twas adrift. Happy Henry brings her close up to it, and then he sees 'tis a nice, good dan, and 'twould be a pity to waste it. 'Might as well pick it up,' says he; and the others says the same. So accordin'ly they proceeds to pick it up. But 'twouldn't come. 'Why!' says Henry, 'if the dashed thing isn't fixed after all! Well, then, we'll just get the moorin's, too!' And then, instead o' thinkin' calmly for a minute or so, they gets sorter angry at it, and in less'n no time they had a line hitched on to it and round the winch. 'Heave away!' yells Happy Henry, smilin' once more, as if he was a-goin' to get the V.C. for savin' a blessed old dan, and presently the two chaps lookin' over the bows cries, 'It's a-comin', boss, it's a-comin'!' And by God, they was right! It come, sure enough, but wi' a bit more moorin's 'n they'd expected. For after the dan comes a mine, and afore a soul could say 'knife,' 'twas bang on the starboard bow.... She sank in 'bout ten minutes. I'd ha' laughed more if it hadn't been for them two poor chaps in her bows.”

“Mortal hard luck,” murmured Bob. “Wonder if we'll live to see the end o' them mines.”

“'Twill take a lot o' good ships, I doubt.”

“Must just keep on sweepin', I s'pose. What does Henry say 'bout the business? Did he think the dan was fixed there intentional, or dropped there by accident, or driftin' till it fouled the mine? ”

“Ho, Henry thinks a lot o' things, but he can't prove aught. Nothin' left to prove aught. But he won't try to save no more fishermen's dans, I reckons.... Ye keep good coffee, Bob.”

“Take some more.”

“Not this time. Must be movin' along and turn in for a spell. Stopped latish wi' Henry, and when I got aboard, the mate was up wi' ragin' toothache and wantin' the whole medicine chest, and when I had give him something, I told him 'bout the dan just for to cheer him up, which it did, and then we got talkin' o' other things; and I was thinkin' o' turnin' in, when I remembered a letter I was goin' for to write. So I wrote it and posted it on my way to see you.” Here Lucky Jack paused, as though to give the other time to ask a question.

But the older man, glancing at the clock, merely said: “Well, ye was welcome, Jack. I'll go on deck wi' ye and see what they're all after. Remember me to Henry, wishin' him fortune wi' his new ship.”

They passed from the cosy cabin, up the steep ladder, and out into the bitter morning. As they went forward Lucky Jack remarked:

“I'll go straight now and post yer letter, Bob. S'pose I shan't see ye for a while.”

“You'll likely be out when I'm in, and I'll likely be out when you're in. Ay, that's the way it goes, lad.”

“Well, so long, Bob. Merry Christmas!”

“Same to you, and best o' luck.”

Jack scrambled on to the quay

“Bob.”

“Ay?”

“Oh, nothin'. So long.”

Lucky Jack went slowly to the post-office. After all, he was afraid, too. At any rate, he had lacked courage to tell Bob Twenty that he had volunteered for the mine-sweeping.