Two days afterward—!
In the gray dawn of an autumn morning our small ship heaved to the incoming swell as she steamed out to take up her station in the convoy. Soon she was dancing joyously to the shrilling of the wind and the sizzling swish of the seas. Two long, low gray shapes accompanied us on each quarter. Hardly discernible at first, they grew more distinct with the light. There were more of them, but invisible, guarding the long line of ships. Occasionally other shapes appeared on the horizon, very faint in their war-paint.
Toward evening I saw again the well-remembered piles of a British landing-stage. How often had I pictured them during three long years! It was always there that I had imagined my home-coming. It had become reality.
Six weeks later: Time: 10 A.M. Enter servant.
“You’re wanted on the ’phone, sir.”
“Who is it?”
“Doesn’t want to give a name, sir.”
“Thanks.—Hullo! Hullo!”
“That Mr. Keith?”