Three months had elapsed since the desperate struggle on Blackstone Edge. The _Boanerges_, a brand-new destroyer recently delivered from the Clyde, had just commissioned at Portsmouth for service with the Grand Fleet.

"My dear Boxspanner," remarked the taller of the twain, "I've come to the conclusion that life ash.o.r.e isn't worth the candle. In common parlance, I'm fed up. The last straw is the abominable petrol tax.

Just fancy, the blighters allow me two gallons a month----"

"You weren't on leave for more than three weeks, Pills," interrupted the engineer-lieutenant.

"Just so; that's the rub. I could have done with a three months'

allowance, and used the lot in a week. By the way, talking of that new carburetter----"

"Boat ahoy!" came a hoa.r.s.e hail from the fo'c'sle as the lynx-eyed look-out detected a dark object approaching under oars towards the destroyer.

"Aye, aye!" was the orthodox reply, given in clear, decisive tones.

The boat was brought smartly alongside the accommodation-ladder, and a young officer came briskly over the side. Jack Sefton, "sub" no longer but a full-fledged "luff", as the two gold rings, surmounted by a curl, on each of his sleeves denoted.

"Well?" enquired Boxspanner eagerly. "Have you seen Crosthwaite?"

"Saw him this afternoon," was the reply. "Pa.s.sed the medical board with flying colours. He's reported fit for duty on the 8th."

"Good business!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Stirling fervently.

"And," continued Sefton, "I'm in the know. Our owner's due for promotion. He'll be given a light cruiser; and unless I'm very much mistaken we'll have Crosthwaite as our skipper before long."

"Quartermaster!" said Sefton, as he turned to descend the companion-ladder.

"Sir," replied that worthy, already known to our readers as Thomas Brown, A.B., but now a promising petty officer.

"See that I am turned out at 5.45."

"Aye, aye, sir."

The three officers disappeared below. The quartermaster smiled grimly as the faint words of the chorus of "They don't run corridor cars on our branch line" caught his ear, followed by an emphatic "Chuck it, old bird."

"Proper jonnick they are, every mother's son of 'em," muttered P.O.

Brown, as he walked for'ard. "Chaps as us fellows would go through 'ell with, if we ain't done so already," his thought reverting to that memorable action in the North Sea when the Huns fled before Jellicoe's armed might.

And thus we say "Adieu," or perhaps "Au revoir," to three gallant gentlemen who had so worthily played their parts in upholding the honour of the White Ensign with Beatty off Jutland.