Compartment 4 was devoted almost entirely to machinery—propelling, pumping, and steering—while the aftermost subdivision contained the oil-fuel tanks and electrical storage batteries.
In each compartment were water-ballast, trimming-tanks, and air-locks for life-saving purposes in the event of the vessel being sunk in comparatively shallow water.
R19 had refilled and replenished stores and provisions. She was ready to "sail" at a moment's notice, directly the Lieutenant-Commander received orders from the Commander-in-Chief's office and had obtained the latest charts of the Baltic from the dockyard chart-room.
In the absence of the Hon. Derek Stockdale, the Sub reported himself to Donald Macquare, the senior lieutenant, who specialized in torpedo-gunnery, a tall, big-boned Scot whose abruptness of manner was apt to form a temporary disguise to a large-hearted nature. Macquare was still a young man—the submarine service had no need for middle-aged officers—and, without professing any claim to being a "Popularity Jack", was well liked by his brother officers and fearlessly respected by the crew.
"Good time?" he asked laconically.
"Rather!" replied the Sub. "And now I'm ready for anything—even another hand at bridge. I won the princely sum of one and eightpence from you last time, do you remember?"
The Lieutenant smiled. He remembered the incident when R19, lying in twenty-five fathoms on the bed of the North Sea, was being sought by a dozen hostile destroyers with "distance charges". At any moment the deadly explosive grapnels might have engaged and blown the strongly-built hull to pieces, yet the while the officers played cards, and the men listened to the muffled notes of a gramophone placed in a glass case to obviate any possibility of the Huns detecting the sounds of revelry.
"We're in for a busy time, laddie," remarked the Lieutenant. "This German offensive against Riga looks a serious matter, and I hear the Hun fleet is off to co-operate in the Gulf of Riga. For the life of me I can't imagine what these Russians are doing. It's proper dry rot. 'The glorious and bloodless revolution—the birth of a new Russia', as some of our statesmen expressed themselves. I'm afraid Russia's knocked out."
"Let's hope not," said Fordyce. "In any case, she did jolly well in the beginning of the war."
"Admitted," rejoined Macquare. "Which proves that the old regime, with its acknowledged defects, was infinitely preferable to the equality-for-all policy of the present day. Freedom! They'll find themselves in a pretty mess before they go very far with their chimerical search, you mark my words. Hallo, here's the skipper coming off."