"Hullo! How are you feeling? I've just come for a change of clothes. I won't be long—I'm Sangatte. No, that's all right. I won't be turning in to-night; we're going right up harbour, and I'll be busy till daylight."
He bustled round the chest of drawers, pulling out woollen scarves, stockings, &c., and talking rapidly. "Lucky touch our finding you. I noted position when your first light went up, but as the chase looked like running on ninety mile yet, I didn't expect to find you. Your joss was in, because the snow came down and they put up a smoke-screen and ceased fire, so we lost touch, and I hadn't far to come back to look for you. Got a Fritz, did you? Good man! We'll have a bottle on your decoration when we get in. The Huns? Yes, they lost their rear ship right off, and the others were plastered good and plenty. We lost one on a mine, but we took the crew off and sank her. I sank your 'plane just now—tied a pig of ballast to her and chucked it over. I thought you might have left some papers—oh! you've got 'em, have you? That's good."
"Yes, they're in my coat pocket. I say, haven't I seen you before? I seem to remember you. Do you hunt?" Mottin stretched his legs out sleepily as he spoke.
"Yes—met you with the Hambledon or Cattistock, I expect. Haven't been on a horse for all of three years, though; and I don't suppose there'll be much doing that way for a long time, now they're putting half the country under plough. S'long. I'm for the bridge; ring that bell if you want anything. The Doc.'s got one or two wounded forrard, so he'll be busy, but my servant'll look out for you." The curtain clashed back, and Mottin, turning over, slid instantly into a log-like sleep.
A TRINITY.
The way of a ship at racing speed
In a bit of a rising gale,
The way of a horse of the only breed
At a Droxford post-and-rail,
The way of a brand-new aeroplane
On a frosty winter dawn.
You'll come back to those again;
Wheel or cloche or slender rein
Will keep you young and clean and sane,
And glad that you were born.
The power and drive beneath me now are above the power of kings,
It's mine the word that lets her loose and in my ear she sings—
"Mark now the way I sport and play with the rising hunted sea,
Across my grain in cold disdain their ranks are hurled at me.
But down my wake is a foam-white lake, the remnant of their line,
That broke and died beneath my pride—your foemen, man, and mine."
The perfect tapered hull below is a dream of line and curve,
An artist's vision in steel and bronze for gods and men to serve.
If ever a statue came to life, you quivering slender thing,
It ought to be you—my racing girl—as the Amazon song you sing.