unterseeboot had shot her last bolt. Eight hours later H.M.S. "Pompey" entered Auldhaig Firth.

CHAPTER II

THE RESULT OF THE LEADING STOKER'S CURIOSITY

"Clear lower deck. Hands fall in to coal ship."

The hoarse orders following the shrill trills of the bos'n's mates' pipes rang from end to end of H.M.S. "Pompey". In the stokers' messes men arrayed in motley garbs, for the most part consisting of old canvas suits and coloured handkerchiefs tied tightly over their foreheads, cleared out at the double to fall in on the quarter-deck.

Stoker James Jorkler, otherwise known as Rhino Jorkler, heard the order not without emotion. He was a tall, sparely-built man of about twenty-four years of age. At first sight he lacked physique, until one noticed the ripple of supple muscles on his partly-bared arms. His face was long and pointed, his eyes blue and deeply set underneath a pair of thick and overhanging brows. His hair closely cropped, tended to exaggerate the elongation of his head. His features betrayed neither signs of good humour nor bad temper, but rather an intelligence bordering upon cunning.

Three months previously the Royal Navy in a somewhat excusable haste had accepted the services of James Jorkler. In war time, with a heavy drain upon personnel the authorities had to be a trifle less particular as to whom they enlisted for temporary service, and amongst a batch of stoker recruits was Jorkler.

His answers upon enlistment evidently satisfied the petty officer responsible for obtaining the necessary particulars. He was a Canadian, he declared, born at Woodstock, New Brunswick. Former occupation? Trimmer on board a White Star liner. His discharge papers confirmed that statement. Next of kin? James Jorkler rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He was on the point of replying that he did not possess such a luxury, but upon consideration he gave the name of Jonas Brocklebunk, his half-brother, of Leith.

Promptly the newly entered stoker was fired off to the R.N. Barracks at Portsmouth. His cap-ribbon, like those of the rest of the men borne on the books of that establishment, was embellished with the words "H.M.S. Victory," although his acquaintance with the time-honoured three-decker was limited to a distant glimpse of the ship as she swung to her moorings in Portsmouth Harbour.

The rest of the stokers' mess could not come to a unanimous decision concerning the tall recruit. His reserve puzzled them. Although he made no attempt to "choke off" any questions, he kept much to himself. He had no bosom pal. He showed no inclination to "split brass rags" with any of his messmates, who, for some unexplained reason, nicknamed him "Rhino."

When in due time he emerged from his course of preliminary training and was drafted to H.M.S. "Pompey," the name stuck. He showed neither appreciation nor resentment at it; it would have been useless to have done either. So he accepted the sobriquet without any outward and visible sign of interest in his messmates' solicitude for his need of a nickname.

The mess-deck was all but cleared. Jorkler, usually amongst the first to respond to orders, lingered until he was almost the last. Then, kneeling over his ditty-box, he unlocked and threw back the lid, delving amongst his belongings until he found what he required. "Wot the 'Ades 'ave you got there, mate?" broke in a deep voice.

Jorkler turned with a start to find that a leading stoker was standing behind him.

"Kind of souvenir," he replied weakly. "I guess is isn't of any interest to you."

"Thought as it might be a plug o' 'bacca," continued the man. "Fact is, I believes it is. 'Ow about it?"

"Reckon you're wrong," snapped Jorkler with returning confidence as he slammed and locked the box.

"Too jolly fishy to my liking," rejoined the petty officer bluntly. "You just wait till we've done coaling and I'll see for myself wot your little game is. Strikes me it ain't all jonnick."

At this threat Jorkler started to his feet Fortunately for the leading stoker there were others still in the mess, otherwise——

Jorkler set his jaw tightly and followed his inquisitor on deck. At the first opportunity he would nip below and throw the object of discussion overboard rather than let the leading stoker see it.

It was still night, with a cold, drizzling rain. Overhead arc-lamps threw a pale gleam upon the serried lines of men—seamen, stokers, and marines—on the quarter-deck. Everything liable to be affected by coal-dust had been covered up. The huge 9.2-in. guns were swathed in sacking; canvas covers encased the closed hatchways; whips for hoisting inboard the sacks of coal, trollies for bearing them to the nearest shoots, and a medley of other gear were in readiness, while steam was already raised to operate the winches.

Skilfully a large "haulabout"—a hulk converted into a floating coal-depôt—was manoeuvred alongside to starboard. To port a couple of deeply laden lighters had already been made fast.

"Commence—carry on!" shouted the commander from the after-bridge.

Instantly it seemed as if pandemonium had broken loose. With a rush the men set to work, for, if possible, H.M.S. "Pompey" was to break her own record.

Winches clattered. Jets of steam drifted across the slippery deck. Men shouted, knocked one another and each other, and worked till, in spite of the chilliness of the morning, their faces, quickly blacked with coal-dust, ran with perspiration.

Most of the junior officers joined in the actual labour. They found that even handling sacks of coal was preferable to standing by and shivering in the damp air. Clad in garments that outvied the bizarre rig of the hands, sub-lieutenants and midshipmen were soon toiling like Trojans.

With an almost reckless disregard for life and limb, sacks in batches of half a dozen at the time were hoisted from the coaling craft and dumped with a dull crash upon the cruiser's deck. Woe-betide the luckless wight who failed to heed the warning cry of "Stand by, there!" Like a pack of wolves the energetic men threw themselves upon the bags and dragged them to the shoots, until the ship vibrated with the clatter of coal descending to the bunkers.

At eight bells the word was passed to "Stand easy." A hasty breakfast, consisting largely of coal-dust washed down with ship's cocoa, was served out. The mess-decks were seething with human beings resembling imps and satyrs in their grimy garbs and blackened faces.

Reluctantly Stoker Jorkler came to the conclusion that this was no time to go to his ditty-box. Up to the present no opportunity had occurred.

Again the ship's company resumed their labours. It was now daybreak. The rain still fell, unheeded by the enthusiastic toilers. The only people who minded the horrible climatic conditions were the band, who, to keep up the spirits of the coaling party, were discussing lively airs in which rag-time predominated.

Suddenly an engine-room artificer working the main derrick hoist gave vent to an oath. "Here, one of you; bear a hand," he claimed. "I've nipped my fingers."

Without a word Stoker Jorkler relieved the luckless man at the steam winch. The E.R.A., with two fingers crushed to a pulp, hurried away to the sick-bay; while Jorkler, whose knowledge of machinery and of winches in particular was far from perfect, remained in control of the hoisting gear. He, of the whole of the ship's company, didn't exactly see why he should break his back over sacks of coal when he could take on the comparatively light job of running the steam hoist.

"Avast heaving there on the main derrick!" shouted Sub-lieutenant Tressidar, whose quick eye had noticed that something had gone wrong aloft.

Jorkler obeyed promptly, shutting off steam and applying the band-brake. A hundred pairs of eyes followed the direction of the sub's outstretched hand. The wire