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
other. "Mark it well, and tell them to work up from there," is the
order. "Another mine exploded!" "Yes, and we heard that too," says
the Office. "What about the submarine?" "_Elizabeth Huggins_ reports...."
_Elizabeth's_ scandal must be fairly high flavoured, for a
torpedo-boat of immoral aspect slings herself out of harbour and
hastens to share it. If _Elizabeth_ has not spoken the truth, there
may be words between the parties. For the present a pencilled
suggestion seems to cover the case, together with a demand, as far as
one can make out, for "more common sweepers." They will be forthcoming
very shortly. Those at work have got the run of the mines now, and are
busily howking them up. A trawler-skipper wishes to speak to the
Office. "They" have ordered him out, but his boiler, most of it, is on
the quay at the present time, and "ye'll remember, it's the same wi'
my foremast an' port rigging, sir." The Office does not precisely
remember, but if boiler and foremast are on the quay the rest of the
ship had better stay alongside. The skipper falls away relieved. (He
scraped a tramp a few nights ago in a bit of a sea.) There is a little
mutter of gun-fire somewhere across the grey water where a fleet is
at work. A monitor as broad as she is long comes back from wherever
the trouble is, slips through the harbour mouth, all wreathed with
signals, is received by two motherly lighters, and, to all appearance,
goes to sleep between them. The Office does not even look up; for that
is not in their department. They have found a trawler to replace the
boilerless one. Her name is slid into the rack. The immoral
torpedo-boat flounces back to her moorings. Evidently what _Elizabeth
Huggins_ said was not evidence. The messages and replies begin again
as the day closes.