CARRIERS 237 



depths of the North Sea nights, looking for the fleet ? 

 And does my Barking skipper still survive, my rugged, 

 grim philosopher who squatted on his bridge and pem- 

 micaned his ethics in the phrase, " Don't look aft," while 

 incidentally expressing his disbelief in missionaries and 

 alluding warmly to them, especially their eyes ? His 

 aged craft she had been running for a quarter of a 

 century collapsed in the Thames, and was promptly 

 sold to foreigners. Strangely enough, the carrier by 

 which I was to have left the fleet, instead of that by 

 which I actually travelled, foundered on the next trip 

 out, giving her crew just time enough to escape. 



The work of finding a fleet is often enough difficult 

 and exasperating even in clear fine weather ; but it is a 

 hard task indeed when a dense fog hangs over the 

 North Sea, for then nothing can be seen through the 

 clammy and depressing atmosphere. Occasionally a 

 wandering carrier or trawler will loom up and there is 

 the mutual dismal hail " Seen anything o' the fleet?" 

 The negative reply is usually accompanied by ferocious 

 criticisms of the North Sea and life in general, with 

 occasional oblique compliments to the admiral's intelli- 

 gence. It is opined that if he were really fit to fill his 

 post he would have remained on his ground until at any 

 rate the particular seekers had joined him. From time 

 to time a baffled skipper will fire a gun-rocket, in the 

 hope of an answering signal from the hidden fleet. The 

 rocket is fixed to the steamboat's rail, a space is cleared 

 around it, because a rocket, especially a gun-rocket, has 

 an unfriendly habit of damaging onlookers, and with a 

 red-hot poker the skipper will discharge his firework. 

 There is a deafening report, then a deep silence in which 



