supplies for the voyage. The crew spent days manoeuvring cases of
condensed milk, cans of butter, meat, and chocolate, down the
hatchways--food which the boat swallowed up as if she had been a kind of
steel stomach. Until we had it all neatly and tightly stowed away, the
_Z_ looked like a corner grocery store. Then, early one December
morning, we pulled out of the harbor. It wasn't very cold, merely raw
and damp, and it was misty dark. I remember looking at the winter stars
riding high just over the meridian. The port behind us was still and
dead, but a handful of navy-folk had come to one of the wharves to see
us off. Yes, there was something of a stir--you know, the kind of stir
that's made when boats go to sea: shouted orders, the plash of dropped
cables, vagrant noises. It didn't take a great time to get under way; we
were ready, waiting for the word to go. The flotilla--mother-ship, tugs
and all--was out to sea long before the dawn. You would have liked the
picture: the immense stretch of the grayish, winter-stricken sea, the
little covey of submarines running awash, the gray mother-ship going
ahead, as casually as an excursion steamer, into the featureless dawn.

"The weather was wonderful for two days,--a touch of Indian summer on
December's ocean; then, on the night of the third day, we ran into a
blow, the worst I ever saw in my life. A storm--oh, boy!"

He paused for an instant. One could see memories living in the fine,
resolute eyes. The broken noises of the restaurant, which had seemingly
died away while he spoke, crept back again to one's ears. A waiter
dropped a clanging fork--

[Sidenote: A terrific storm comes on toward night.]

"A storm. Never remember anything like it. A perfect terror. Everybody