down into the water, where we haul him out by the breeches and hang his
machine up to dry on the fo'c's'le. By performing these duties four times a
month, he leads us to believe he is preparing the way for the ultimate
domination of Air Power. We of the Navy are obsolete, and our hulls are
encrusted with the Harwich barnacle.

The argument proceeds on these lines: One day there will be another
war--perhaps to-morrow. We of the Navy, coalless and probably by that time
rumless as well, will rush blindly from our harbours, our masts decked with
Jolly Rogers and our sailors convulsed with hornpipe, to seek the enemy.
But, alas, before the ocean spray has wetted our ruby nostrils we shall
find ourselves descended upon from above and bombed promiscuously in the
middle watch.

It will be all over inside a nautical second. The sky will be black with
hostile aircraft, and there will be lead in the stew and bleeding bodies in
the bilge. Hollow laughter will sound from the bridge, where the Captain
will find the wheel come away in his hand, and the gramophone will revolve
eternally on a jazz rune because no one will be alive to stop it. When all
these things occur we of the Navy will know that our day is past and done.

Why our Mr. Spooner is such a remarkable fellow is because he can sit deep
in an easy-chair and recite these things without turning a single hair on
his top lip. Of course he realises that the work of the Navy must go
on--until the crash descends. But it is rather unsettling for us. It seems
to give us all a sort of impermanent feeling. Quite naturally we all ask
what is the use of keeping up the log and painting the ship? Why isn't all
the spare energy in the ship bent to polishing up our boat-drill? or why
aren't the people who can afford it encouraged to buy unsinkable
waistcoats? The Admiralty must know all about it if they are still on