In one point, indeed, there has been no improvisation. Nothing was
trusted to chance. What is it that alone has secured us the time to make
the effort we have made?

It is now about a month ago that, by permission of the Admiralty, I found
myself driving towards a certain pier in a harbour opening on the North
Sea. The Commodore of a Cruiser Squadron was to send his boat for me, and
I was to lunch with him on board his Flag-ship. I duly passed the
distrustful sentry on the road leading to the pier, arrived at the
pier-head and descended from the motor which had brought me. The morning
was mistily sunny, and the pier strangely deserted. Where was the boat?
Where was my friend who had hoped to come for me himself? No signs of
either. The few old sailors employed about the pier looked at me in
astonishment, and shook their heads when I inquired. Commodore ----'s boat
was not there; no boat had been in that morning from the ships. I took the
Commodore's letter from my hand-bag, to assure myself I had not been
dreaming, and reread it in perplexity. No dates could be clearer--no
directions more precise. Suddenly I perceive one tall naval officer on the
pier. "Can you help me, sir?" And I hand him the Commodore's letter. He
looks at me--and at the letter. His face twinkles with repressed laughter;
and I laugh, too, beginning to understand. "Very sorry," says the charming
young man, "but I think I can assure you there will be no boat, and it is
no use your waiting. Commodore ---- went to sea last night."

I thanked him, and we laughed together. Then I walked up the pier a little
way, seeing a movement in the mist. A sailor came up to me. "They all went
to sea last night," he said in my ear--"and there are the slow ones coming
back!" And out of the mist came the black shapes of war-ships, moving
majestically up the harbour--one might have fancied, with a kind of
injured dignity, because their unreasonable fellows had been faster and