II.

OF A T.B.D. CAPTAIN, WHO DREAMS THAT HE HAS FOUND HIS LOG BOOK MADE UP
BY MR. PH*L*P G*BBS.

_Time:--7.30 A.M._--Once more we set out on our never-ending mission,
our ceaseless vigil of the seas. The ruddy weather-stained coxswain
swung the wheel this way and that--his eyes were of the blue that only
the sea can give--in obedience to, or rather in accord with, the curt,
mystic, seaman-like orders of the young officer of the watch. "Hard
a-port! Midships! Hard a-starboard! Port 20! Steady as she goes!" And
ceaselessly the engine-room telegraph tinkled, and the handy little
craft, with death and terror written in her workmanlike lines for
the seaman, for all her slim insignificance to the landlubber on the
towering decks of the great liner, swung smartly through the crowded
water-way out to the perils lurking 'neath the seeming smile of the
open sea: the guardian angel of our commerce it went, to meet--what
Heaven alone could foretell!

_Course_.--S. 70° E. Towards the rising sun and our brethren in khaki,
toiling in the wet mud as we toil on the wet waters!

_Deviation_.--1° E. Wonderful the accuracy of the little instrument
whereon men's lives do hang, wise in the lore of the firmament!

_Patent Log_.--O. Nothing--as yet! What will it register ere the day
be done? Or will its speckless copper lie rusting in the grey chill of
the sea's dank depths?