AT eight o'clock on the following Thursday morning H.M.S. "Tantalus" cast off from her moorings in Trecurnow Roads and stood down Channel.
She was an armoured cruiser of an obsolescent type, and although not powerful enough to be of material use to the Grand Fleet, was admirably adapted to the work allotted to her—ocean patrolling and escorting transports to and from overseas. Since the outbreak of war her steaming mileage worked out at a little over 200,000 miles, or roughly eight times the circumference of the earth. During this stupendous task her engines had given hardly any trouble, and never once had had a serious breakdown—a feat that was rendered possible solely to the unremitting care and attention of her engineering officers and ratings. Sixteen years previously her contract speed was twenty-five knots; and when occasion required her "black squad" could whack her up to her original form.
On either side of the cruiser a long, lean destroyer kept station, for the "Tantalus" was to be escorted through the danger zone. Waspish little motor patrol boats, too, were dashing and circling around her, their task being to put the wind up any lurking U-boat that was bold enough to risk being rammed or blown up by depth charges by the attendant destroyers.
"Mornin', Slogger, old bird," exclaimed a voice. "Looking for your friend, Holcombe?"
Farrar, whose turn it was to be Duty Sub of the Watch, was levelling his glass at one of the destroyers. Upon hearing himself familiarly addressed—for the nickname of schooldays still stuck—he turned and placed the telescope under his arm.
"Mornin', Banger," he replied. "No; I knew it was no use looking for Holcombe on that packet. The 'Antipas' is of a later type; besides, she's not completed commissioning yet. How's that dog of mine behaving?"
Dick Sefton was another of the "Tantalus's" sub-lieutenants, a short and heavily built fellow whose full face was brimming over with good-humour. He was an R.N.R. man, called up for duty as a midshipman on the outbreak of hostilities. For some obscure reason his messmates had nicknamed him Banger, although there was a suspicion that those tinned delicacies, otherwise known as "Zeppelins in the Clouds," had something to do with it. Sefton had already had a fair share of adventure. He had been torpedoed twice—once in the AEgean Sea, and again somewhere within the Arctic Circle; he had been in a tough engagement between two armed merchantmen, and had taken part in a hand-to-hand struggle between the crews of a U-boat and a possible victim that proved to be a veritable Tartar. He had braved the rigours of two winters in the North Sea on Examination Service, and had spent four days without food and a very little water in an open boat under the blazing sun in the Eastern Mediterranean. Yet in spite of hardships and perils his cherubic smile still clung to his homely features. Not a soul of the "Tantalus's" ship's company could truthfully say that he had seen Banger in a bad temper.
"Bruno is in great form, absolutely," replied Sefton. "During the absence of his worthy master, namely yourself, he has been improving his acquaintance with the rest of the mess—and their effects."
"Eh?" exclaimed Farrar. "Been in mischief?"
"The casualties to date are—killed: one pot of honey belonging to little Tinribs, two gramophone records, the property of the mess, and Johnson's pneumatic waistcoat; wounded: the messman and one of the marine servants while attempting to rescue the before-mentioned waistcoat under a heavy fire; missing: the contents of a tin of condensed milk and a plate of curried fowl. The messman and the marine contemplating reprisals, Bruno merely beat a strategic retreat to the padre's cabin. Latest reports state that the animal, possibly owing to a surfeit of condensed milk and curried fowl, combined with the unaccustomed motion of the ship, strongly resembles the present state of Russia; to wit, violent internal disorder. So, my festive Slogger, you'll have something to answer for."