"Yes, and to see that the commodity she carries isn't in excess of the ration allowed to the country of destination—if she's eastward bound, that is. Also the passengers are scrutinised for suspects, and so on; it's a big job, one way and another. That's all done by the Examination Service at the port, though, and I don't envy them the job. We only catch 'em and bring 'em in."
For a while longer he talked between puffs at his pipe of the "twilight service" rendered by the Armed Merchant-cruisers. He spoke of grim stern-chases under the Northern Lights, of perils from ice and submarines and winter gales, while the Allied strangle-hold tightened month by month, remorselessly, relentlessly.
"It's a peaceful sort of job, though, on the whole," he concluded.
"Nobody worries us. The public, most of 'em, don't know we exist.
Journalists don't want to come and visit us much," he chuckled. "We
don't find our way into the illustrated papers…."
"That's right," said the Submarine Hunter. "That's the way to work in war-time. If I had my way——"
A jarring shudder ran through the train as the brakes were applied and the speed slackened. The Reserve Man lowered the window and peered out into the darkness. A flurry of snow drifted into the dimly lighted carriage.
"Hallo!" he ejaculated. "We're here. Bless me, how the time goes when one gets yarning."
The Volunteer rose and held out his hand.
"My name is Armitage," he said, and named two exclusive clubs, one in London and the other in New York. "Look me up after the war if you pass that way."
The Submarine Hunter took the proffered hand in his formidable grip.
"Pleased to have met you. Mine's Gedge. I don't own a club, but the Liverpool Shipping Federation generally knows my address. And the girls from Simonstown to Vladivostock will tell you if I've passed that way!"