320 A SUMMER ON THE YENESEl 



coast, trade seemed to be proceeding much as usual. 



It was well guarded. Off the Tyne a cruiser kept 



watch at the river's mouth, and a couple of submarines 



foamed past us. Hard after them came a picket-boat : 



Where did we hail from ? Where bound for ? Had we 



seen anything of the enemy ? The enemy ! — off the 



Tyne ! — such a thing had not been heard of in England 



for a hundred years ; and as the pilot came on board, 



a pair of lean dark destroyers stole seawards through 



the mist. Passengers were sent below as we entered 



the river, but from the porthole one might mark the 



bustle and clangour of the shipwrights' work upon 



hulls where already the familiar red of commerce was 



overlaid by the sinister grey of Admiralty. Beside the 



quay were more officials to examine passports and 



detain German subjects. We reached the station at 



last. Men in khaki in the streets ; men in khaki on 



the platform ; men in khaki on the train. On the 



walls flamed patriotic posters ; patriotic songs were on 



everybody's lips. Signs everywhere that the British 



lion was beginning to wake up at last, and was going 



to make up for lost time in his own stupid, blundering, 



heroical way. There was war-fever from end to end 



of the country, and here were we, two practical, 



educated Englishwomen, and we knew less about it 



all than even the newsboy who sold us a paper. We 



read everything, from the Times to the Daily Sketch. 



" And what on earth is it all about ? " we said at last. 



At first sight it is a far cry from the murder of an 



Austrian archduke to warships in the Tyne. 



Luckily there was a fellow-traveller ready to 



