A BLOCK IN THE TRAFFIC

Now imagine, not a pistol-shot from these crowded quays, a little
Office hung round with charts that are pencilled and noted over
various shoals and soundings. There is a movable list of the boats at
work, with quaint and domestic names. Outside the window lies the
packed harbour--outside that again the line of traffic up and down--a
stately cinema-show of six ships to the hour. For the moment the film
sticks. A boat--probably a "common sweeper"--reports an obstruction in
a traffic lane a few miles away. She has found and exploded one mine.
The Office heard the dull boom of it before the wireless report came
in. In all likelihood there is a nest of them there. It is possible
that a submarine may have got in last night between certain shoals and
laid them out. The shoals are being shepherded in case she is hidden
anywhere, but the boundaries of the newly discovered mine-area must be
fixed and the traffic deviated. There is a tramp outside with tugs in
attendance. She has hit something and is leaking badly. Where shall
she go? The Office gives her her destination--the harbour is too full
for her to settle down here. She swings off between the faithful tugs.
Down coast some one asks by wireless if they shall hold up their
traffic. It is exactly like a signaller "offering" a train to the next
block. "Yes," the Office replies. "Wait a while. If it's what we
think, there will be a little delay. If it isn't what we think, there
will be a little longer delay." Meantime, sweepers are nosing round
the suspected area--"looking for cuckoos' eggs," as a voice suggests;
and a patrol-boat lathers her way down coast to catch and stop
anything that may be on the move, for skippers are sometimes rather
careless. Words begin to drop out of the air into the chart-hung
Office. "Six and a half cables south, fifteen east" of something or