other. "Mark it well, and tell them to work up from there," is the
order. "Another mine exploded!" "Yes, and we heard that too," says
the Office. "What about the submarine?" "_Elizabeth Huggins_ reports...."

_Elizabeth's_ scandal must be fairly high flavoured, for a
torpedo-boat of immoral aspect slings herself out of harbour and
hastens to share it. If _Elizabeth_ has not spoken the truth, there
may be words between the parties. For the present a pencilled
suggestion seems to cover the case, together with a demand, as far as
one can make out, for "more common sweepers." They will be forthcoming
very shortly. Those at work have got the run of the mines now, and are
busily howking them up. A trawler-skipper wishes to speak to the
Office. "They" have ordered him out, but his boiler, most of it, is on
the quay at the present time, and "ye'll remember, it's the same wi'
my foremast an' port rigging, sir." The Office does not precisely
remember, but if boiler and foremast are on the quay the rest of the
ship had better stay alongside. The skipper falls away relieved. (He
scraped a tramp a few nights ago in a bit of a sea.) There is a little
mutter of gun-fire somewhere across the grey water where a fleet is
at work. A monitor as broad as she is long comes back from wherever
the trouble is, slips through the harbour mouth, all wreathed with
signals, is received by two motherly lighters, and, to all appearance,
goes to sleep between them. The Office does not even look up; for that
is not in their department. They have found a trawler to replace the
boilerless one. Her name is slid into the rack. The immoral
torpedo-boat flounces back to her moorings. Evidently what _Elizabeth
Huggins_ said was not evidence. The messages and replies begin again
as the day closes.