PART I

RAXWORTHY’S LUCK

I

The way in which the commander summed up the situation was brief and to the point—very much so.

“Sheer carelessness; leave jammed!”

Midshipman Kenneth Raxworthy set his jaw firmly, looked the commander straight in the face and said nothing. He wanted to expostulate at the injustice of the sentence—which meant that long-looked-for Christmas leave would be denied him—but the strong sense of naval discipline prevailed. He must swallow the bitter pill unflinchingly. In the Royal Navy orders must be carried out smartly and unquestioningly. After they have been executed one may relieve one’s feelings by grousing about their futility or otherwise, provided the grumble does not reach the ears of the officer responsible for the order.

It certainly was hard lines on the young midshipman. In bringing the motor-picket-boat alongside her parent ship—the light cruiser Kirkham —the helm had jammed, with the result that, before way could be taken off her, the picket-boat had smashed her stem-head against the ship’s side.

To make matters worse, the accident had been witnessed both by the captain and the commander, who happened to be on the fore-bridge. The Owner, as the captain of a warship is commonly dubbed, requested the Bloke, otherwise the commander, to investigate the cause of the mishap and deal with the delinquent in a suitable manner should the midshipman be at fault.

Directly the motor-pinnace had been hoisted Kenneth formally reported the accident to the officer-of-the-watch, who was pacing the quarter-deck.

“Commander wishes to see you in his cabin, my lad,” observed the officer-of-the-watch.

Knowing full well that the Bloke’s wishes were a command, Kenneth went below “at the double”, and knocked at the sliding door bearing the intimation in raised brass letters that it gave access to the cabin of the immediate arbiter of his destinies.

“Of all the lubberly ways of coming alongside, yours is the worst exhibition I’ve seen since I’ve been in the Service,” began the commander without any preamble. “What have you to say?”

“I tried to put the wheel hard-a-starboard and it jammed, sir.”

Ever since he had gained the rank that gave him gilt oak leaves on his cap, the commander had almost daily listened to excuses from lower-deck defaulters, and less frequently to explanations often highly exaggerated from junior officers. Long familiarity had bred contempt and invariably he looked upon an excuse as a feeble attempt to mitigate the penalty. He had become a past master in the art of bowling out a defaulter.

“Stand fast a minute,” he ordered, and left the cabin.

In point of fact the midshipman had to “stand fast” for a long five minutes before the Bloke returned with a cold triumphant look in his eyes.

“The steering-gear has been thoroughly tested,” he announced bluntly. “It operates quite easily.”

Since there was no question there could be no reply. It was considered worse than bad form for a junior to contradict a senior officer’s statement. Kenneth remained silent.

“Sheer carelessness!” declared the Bloke. “Leave jammed!”

Accepting the silent gesture of dismissal the midshipman saluted and, leaving the cabin, hurried along the half-deck to the gun-room.

The only occupants of the midshipmen’s den at the moment were two cheerful-looking youths, one of whom was disentombing articles of clothing from the depths of a sea-chest, while the other was poring over the pages of Bradshaw to reassure himself that a certain train did start at a certain time. At intervals for the last ten days he had looked up that train, making sure that asterisks and other mysterious signs did not affect its departure and subsequent arrival at its destination.

Already news had reached the gun-room that Kenneth Raxworthy had been “on the carpet” before the inexorable commander.

“What did he say?” inquired Whitwell, the midshipman struggling with the time-table.

“Leave jammed,” replied Kenneth laconically.

“Hard lines!” rejoined both snotties sympathetically.

“And he chucked my seamanship in my teeth,” continued Kenneth bitterly. “Said it was the most lubberly bit of work he’d ever seen. I told him that the steering-gear had jammed and he went for a look-see.”

“And then?” prompted Stamford, who was still heaving personal gear from the sea-chest.

“He said that the gear was all O.K.,” replied Raxworthy. “Mind you, I don’t say that it isn’t now, but I can swear it did jam as I came alongside. Well, that’s torn it, Jimmy, absolutely,” he continued, addressing Whitwell. “I’d better write to your people and tell them that I cannot accept their invitation.”

Kenneth’s people were in India, and as the midshipman had no relations at home where he could spend Christmas, his chum Whitwell had asked his parents to invite him for the festive season.

The invitation had been sent to include Midshipman Welburn, and the three chums were looking forward to a topping time at Kindersley Manor. Whitwell’s people’s hospitality was well known to the gun-room of H.M.S. Kirkham, and even though the remaining members had their own homes in which to spend Christmas, most of them rather envied the good luck of Kenneth Raxworthy and Jimmy Whitwell.

The Whitwells did things on somewhat a lavish scale, but without ostentation. Usually, just before Christmas leave started, their car was sent to whatever home port in which Kirkham chanced to be, and Jimmy and his chums were conveyed to Kindersley Manor with the least trouble to themselves, and without any drain upon their limited exchequer. The Manor was Liberty Hall as far as the young guests were concerned. There were shooting-parties, plenty of outdoor sports and indoor amusements while—no small attraction this—Jimmy Whitwell had several decidedly pretty sisters who—to quote the verdict of those midshipmen who knew—were “sports without being sidey”.

And now, almost at the eleventh hour, the Bloke’s decree had fallen almost as swiftly and effectually as the knife of a guillotine.

There was not the faintest hope of the commander relenting. He prided himself upon his cast-iron discipline, and had never been known to countermand an order.

“Hard lines, old son,” remarked Whitwell sympathetically, adding: “We’ll think of you when you’re standing middle watch on Christmas morn, my lad!”

“Don’t rub it in,” rejoined Kenneth gloomily, as he sat down to write the letter announcing his regrets at being unable to spend Christmas at Kindersley Manor.

Contrary to usual custom the light cruiser Kirkham had not been ordered to return to her home port for the purpose of giving Christmas leave. The fishery protection cruiser Gannet, having developed engine defects, had been sent south for repairs and in consequence Kirkham was under orders to remain on the east coast pending the former’s return to her station.

Junk Harbour is never a particularly inviting spot even in summer. During the winter, conditions are simply appalling. The outer roadstead, in which the light cruiser rode to her own anchors, was practically open to gales between nor’-east through east to sou’-east, and these are the prevailing ones between September and March. Slight protection is afforded by the Mutches, a cluster of rocky islets, a few of which are inhabited by hardy fisherfolk whose daring in wresting a livelihood from the treacherous sea is equalled by their disregard for law and order as laid down by the Board of Agriculture and Fisheries.

On the outermost rock comprising the Mutches a lofty lighthouse serves as a guide to mariners making for Junk Harbour, but so exposed is this beacon that often the three light-keepers have to wait a week or more before their reliefs can come off from the little town of Mautby.

Of Mautby itself there is little to be said. It is the terminus of a branch line from which two trains depart and two arrive every weekday—unless the line is blocked by snow. On Sundays communication by rail ceases. There are two very indifferent inns, no cinema, and hardly any amusements for the men of His Majesty’s ships who happen to be lying in Junk Harbour.

It was three miles from this back-of-beyond town and in the centre of Junk Harbour outer roadstead that Mr. Midshipman Raxworthy was to spend his Christmas!

II

“Fall in, liberty men!”

The hoarse order, followed by the shrill trill of the bo’sun’s mate’s pipes brought the hands of the watch detailed for leave tumbling up pell-mell through the hatchways. At the double they ran aft to form up in two ranks upon the quarter-deck, where they stood shivering in the chilly on-shore wind in spite of great-coats, jerseys, and mufflers.

“Liberty men—‘shun!”

The ranks stiffened, each man staring fixedly into space while the inspecting officer, accompanied by a midshipman and the master-at-arms, passed slowly up and down, keenly on the look-out for any glaring departure from regulations in the men’s “rig”.

“Carry on!”

The ranks broke, each man, holding his suitcase and making sure that his liberty ticket and travelling warrant were still in his possession, making for one of two pinnaces lying alongside.

In a few moments both boats were filled to their utmost capacity, while the duty steam-boat, with Midshipman Raxworthy in charge, backed and then went slowly ahead preparatory to taking the two liberty boats in tow.

The Owner had left the ship on the previous day, and in consequence the commander was virtually captain of the Kirkham. The Bloke evidently meant to give Raxworthy more than his fair share of duty, if the commander’s night-order book was any criterion. And the commander was pacing the starboard side of the quarter-deck, apparently oblivious to the biting wind and stinging sleet, with the evident intention of seeing how smartly the midshipman got away with his tow.

It was by no means a simple manœuvre. There was quite a nasty sea running, and since the light cruiser was lying head on to both wind and tide there was little lee to be obtained from her lofty hull. The steam-boat had not only to sheer off from the ship’s side, but she had to get the two heavily laden pinnaces clear. Too much way might result in the towing hawsers parting; too little and the steam-boat would probably foul the slack hawser with her propeller—and then all the fat would be in the fire, even if the liberty men didn’t find themselves in the ditch!

But Raxworthy’s luck was in this time. The steam-boat gathered way, taking it green as her bows plunged into the short, steep seas. Then, once she and her double tow were well clear of the ship, the midshipman put his helm down and described a sixteen-point turn. Not until wind and sea were astern and the two pinnaces rolling sluggishly in her wake did Kenneth heave a sigh of relief.

“The Bloke can’t have me on that, anyway!” he soliloquized.

Just as the steam-boat was entering the inner harbour the motor-picket-boat—the reason for Midshipman Raxworthy’s present duty—came pelting seaward with a whaler in tow. In the stern sheets of the latter sat a petty officer coxswain, almost hidden by a mass of evergreens and holly.

As the whaler drew abeam the coxswain stood up and saluted the midshipman; then as the two pinnaces in tow glided past, the liberty men greeted the cargo of evergreens with ironical cheers. It mattered not to them that those evergreens were going to be used to decorate Kirkham’s mess-decks. They would not be there, but would be enjoying their Christmas leave ashore.

The midshipman gave a quick glance astern at the rapidly receding motor-picket-boat and her tow. How he loathed that motor-picket-boat, the cause of his present disappointment. She had let him down through no fault of his own, and in consequence he was fated to spend the “festive season”—which promised to be anything but that as far as he was concerned—in a half-empty ship. Most of the officers were already on leave; practically all his messmates of the gun-room would be “going on the beach” that afternoon. On Christmas Day he would have the doubtful pleasure of accompanying the commander and the few officers who remained on a semi-ceremonial tour of the evergreen-decorated mess-deck. That was all the Christmas spirit he was likely to enter upon. The odds were that even the Christmas mail would be late—trust the Mautby branch line for that!—and that there would be neither presents nor letters to cheer him up.

Without mishap the two pinnaces ranged up alongside the jetty and disgorged their human cargo. There were no water police in Mautby to harry the liberty men and for some reason the customs boatmen were absent.

“No bloomin’ water-rats about this time, Joe,” Kenneth overheard the coxswain of one of the liberty boats remark to his “opposite number”. “What’s the lay? Have they got the Christmas feeling?”

“Not they,” replied the other, “I heard as a Frenchie’s trying to run a cargo up-along and the water-rats are off to nab him—if they can.”

“Well, s’long as they don’t get us on that lay, I hopes the Frenchie’ll kipper their bloomin’ Christmas,” rejoined the first speaker, who, having been caught by the Customs while in possession of a couple of plugs of smuggled tobacco, had no love for the members of His Majesty’s Preventive Service.

“Well, mine’s kippered any old way,” thought Midshipman Raxworthy. “But, by Jove! it would be a bit of excitement if there’s anything in the yarn, and I’m sent away to capture a French smuggler!”

III

There was very little respite for Midshipman Raxworthy. His next duty—for the commander meant to keep him busy—was to take ashore the junior officers and midshipmen who had been given leave.

“Bung-ho, Rax!” was Jimmy Whitwell’s final greeting as the boat with its load of exuberant snotties ran alongside the jetty. “I’ll write and tell you what you’ve missed if I have time!”

That seemed about the limit—to bear the brunt of a running fire of more or less sympathetic remarks from his fortunate messmates, and then to watch their disappearing forms as they scampered up the steps of the jetty and hurried to the railway station with hardly a backward glance or a farewell to the luckless victim of the commander’s ire.

Christmas Eve came round—as depressing a day as one could imagine. A biting nor’-easterly wind accompanied by a flurry of snow had sprung up during the night. The glass was rising rapidly—a sure sign of a gale from some northerly point.

Almost as soon as Midshipman Raxworthy came on duty the officer-of-the-watch hailed him.

“Commander wishes that q.d. awnings and curtains be furled immediately,” he ordered. “Look lively, or something will carry away in a brace of shakes.”

The order was certainly necessary. Already the canvas was bellying upwards and flogging under the onslaught of the rising gale.

Turning out the duty sub-division of his watch the midshipman superintended the task, the while fearing the commander’s ire should the stubborn canvas “take charge and carry away”, through the careless handling of the men engaged upon the job.

At length the awnings were furled and the hands trooped for’ard, leaving the officer-of-the-watch and Midshipman Raxworthy in sole occupation of the wind-swept quarter-deck. Now that the curtains were removed there was nothing to shelter the two officers from the icy blast that swept unrestrainedly across the exposed deck.

Drifts of snow accumulated against hatchway coamings. Raxworthy was young enough to revel in a snowballing contest, but by virtue of the dignity of his minor authority such delights were denied him. Dejectedly he paced the deck in company with the distinctly morose officer-of-the-watch who, upon his own admission, was “fed up to the back teeth”, because duty held him back from Christmas festivities ashore.

There was nothing to do, no signals to be given or received. Everything beyond a radius of about a hundred yards was hidden in swirling flakes of snow. As it was between half ebb and low water the entrance to Junk Harbour was impassable and in consequence no vessel would be entering or leaving. According to custom look-outs were posted both on the bridge and in the eyes of the ship, but in the circumstances their task, like that of the watch-keeping officer was a mere matter of form.

“And this is a Merry Christmas—I don’t think!” thought Raxworthy, as the morning wore on in freezing inactivity.

His trick over, the midshipman ate a sorry meal in solitary state in the deserted gun-room. To make matters worse, the stove was behaving abominably, giving out hardly any heat and sending out clouds of smoke.

Ringing the bell the midshipman summoned the gun-room messman.

“See that that cowl is trimmed properly, Jones,” he ordered. “I’m being smoked out!”

“Very good, sir,” replied the messman, at the same time placing a book upon the table.

Raxworthy glared banefully at the unwanted gift. He knew perfectly well what it was—the commander’s night-order book.

As soon as the door closed, the midshipman opened the book, eager to know the latest blow that fate had dealt him. He was not mistaken in his forebodings. In the commander’s small and clear handwriting appeared:

“Motor-picket-boat will proceed to Mautby at 23.30 to bring officers off to the ship.”

Raxworthy glanced at the clock on the bulkhead. It was now 11.30 a.m. In twelve hours—thirty minutes before midnight—he would have to make another hateful run into Mautby to fetch the surgeon-commander and the engineer-lieutenant who apparently had found sufficient attraction ashore to spend an evening either in or on the outskirts of that desolate town.

“I believe the Bloke persuaded them to go so that he’d get the chance of sending me to bring them off,” ruminated the midshipman. “If this isn’t a dog’s life, what is?”

By ten in the evening the gale had moderated somewhat, although the sea ran high. Rigged out in oilskins and sea-boots, Raxworthy came on deck and went to the side.

The picket-boat was straining at the lower boom, shipping it green as the bow-rope took the strain. In the sickly gleam of the starboard navigation lamp the sea looked particularly forbidding and the boat herself a mere cockleshell.

“All correct, sir,” reported the coxswain.

“Plenty of fuel?”

“Paraffin tank full, sir, and a gallon of petrol for starting up.”

“Good!” ejaculated Raxworthy. “Lead on, coxswain!”

With an agility born of long practice, the petty officer made his way out along the lower boom and, watching his opportunity, dropped upon the fore-deck of the heaving motor-picket-boat.

The midshipman followed. Encumbered as he was with board-stiff oilskins and heavy sea-boots his movements were slower. He knew perfectly well that a slip would mean almost certain death—with the choice of being crushed between the boat’s and the ship’s side or of being carried down by the weight of his boots. Even if he found himself in the ditch and were able to kick off his boots, he could not keep himself afloat for more than a few seconds in the piercingly cold water.

At the end of the boom Raxworthy groped for the jacob’s ladder, descended three or four rungs and then hung on—waiting.

A dozen feet below him was a smooth triangular patch upon which the rays of the red, white and green navigation lamps blended in a weird colour scheme. That patch was the motor-picket-boat’s fore-deck, and upon it he must drop or pay the penalty for failure.

The midshipman waited. Up came the boat’s bows on the crest of a huge wave that threw showers of icy spray to right and left.

His feet were almost touching the slippery teak planks—yet he hesitated.

The opportunity was lost, for the next moment the bows dipped. Then with a jerk that shook the lower boom like a twanged bow-string the boat snubbed at her painter, shipped a few tons of water over her fore-deck and rose like a mastiff emerging from the sea, until once more the midshipman’s feet were almost touching the heaving planks.

“Let go, sir, I’ll steady you!” roared the coxswain, his voice barely audible above the noise of the elements.

Involuntarily shutting his eyes, Raxworthy relaxed his grip and dropped. Even as his rubber-shod soles slithered on the slippery deck he felt himself gripped by both arms.

“Right you are, sir!” exclaimed the petty officer reassuringly. “Hang on, sir, she’s going to snub something cruel!”

Gripping the handrail of the raised cover over the motor-room, Raxworthy waited. With a jerk that shook the boat from stem to stern the painter took up the sudden strain. A shower of icy spray flew inboard, a generous quantity finding its way inside the storm flap of the midshipman’s oilskins, and in spite of his thick muffler the icy liquid trickled down his chest, making him gasp for breath.

A moment later and Raxworthy gained his post at the wheel. The bowman crept for’ard ready to let go, while the coxswain stood behind his young officer to give advice and assistance should either be required.

But once at his post the midshipman’s confidence returned. The discomfort—even the sense of injustice under which he had rankled—was forgotten. He was in command of the boat, captain of his immediate destiny and likewise responsible for the lives of his men and for the safety of his command.

Spinning the wheel first to port and then to starboard in order to reassure himself that on this occasion it was functioning properly, Raxworthy gave the order to cast off and to the leading stoker—who was in charge of the motor—for a “touch ahead”.

Rolling and plunging, the motor-picket-boat gathered way and drew clear of her parent ship. In a few seconds the Kirkham was swallowed up in the darkness of the snow-laden night.

Except for the motor-picket-boat navigation lamps, and the feeble glimmer of the binnacle lamp, not a light was visible. Even the powerful rays of the lighthouse on the extremity of the Mutches were blotted out, although in normal conditions the light was visible for twenty-five miles.

Kenneth Raxworthy entertained no doubts concerning his ability to find the entrance of the inner harbour. Allowing for the set of the tide and the strength and direction of the wind, he knew the correct compass course. All that was necessary was to hold on to that course until the pier-head lights became visible through the mirk. He had made that trip so many times that he knew the course by heart—“west a half south”.

But in less than five minutes from the time of getting clear of the ship Raxworthy’s confidence received a shattering shock.

Almost without warning—for the noise of wind and sea drowned the expostulating splutter of the carburettor—the motor stopped.

The picket-boat, quickly losing way, hung head to wind for a brief space, then, pounded by a heavy wave, swung broadside on and helpless in the trough of the sea.

Less than a couple of miles and dead to lee’ard were the dreaded Mutches, the saw-like reefs of which were waiting for their prey!

IV

Kenneth fully realized the dire peril that beset him and those under his orders. He was directly responsible for the safety of his men. In spite of his youth his training at Dartmouth, followed by a few months in the light cruiser, had taught him self-reliance.

The impassive-featured coxswain was waiting for the first sign of indecision on the midshipman’s features. The petty officer, who was old enough to be Raxworthy’s father, knew perfectly well that the situation would either prove the midshipman to be a leader of men or the reverse. Had the latter shown any sign of cracking under the ordeal then the coxswain would issue what orders he thought fit to safeguard the lives of his comrades. Should this step become necessary and the crew survived the ordeal, Raxworthy’s name would be Mud for the rest of his Service career.

But the coxswain was agreeably disappointed.

“Let go the anchor!” ordered the midshipman. “See that the forelock is properly secured,” he added, as a precautionary measure.

The bowman crept along the slippery waterways to the plunging fore-deck. Working deftly in the darkness, he assured himself that the anchor-stock was efficiently secured, and then toppled the “killick”—weighing more than a hundredweight—over the bows.

With a rush and a roar the chain ran out until the picket-boat snubbed violently and, held by the anchor, swung head to wind and tide.

“Holding, sir!” reported the bowman.

Reassured on that point, Kenneth ordered the man aft. He wasn’t going to run the risk of losing the seaman overboard as the picket-boat plunged her nose deeply into the hissing, surging seas.

Descending a short, vertical steel ladder, Kenneth gained the motor-room. For some seconds the temporary transition from the cold and darkness without to the heated and electrically lighted engine room virtually blinded him.

“What’s wrong now?” he inquired anxiously.

“Water in the fuel tank, sir,” replied the leading stoker, and to bear out his statement he extended a horny hand, in the palm of which he held a quantity of paraffin on which globules of water floated. “I’ll swear, sir, I put the paraffin through the strainer, and there wasn’t a drop of water showing on the gauge.”

The man’s anxiety to clear himself hardly interested Raxworthy at the moment. What was more to the point was how to get the motor running again.

“Clean your carburettor and change over to petrol,” he ordered. “Look lively, or we’ll be on the rocks if the anchor starts to drag.”

With that Kenneth went on deck to await developments.

“We’ll get her going in a brace of shakes, Wilson,” he remarked to the coxswain.

“Hope so, sir,” rejoined the petty officer. “Only, sir, pardon me saying, it seems to me that the killick’s dragging. Ten fathoms and a hard bottom doesn’t give a decent holding ground.”

The coxswain’s statement that the anchor was failing to hold put a different complexion on the situation.

Raxworthy peered into the snow-laden darkness, striving to pick up some light that might give him a chance either to verify or disprove the petty officer’s statement.

There was none. In that blinding snowstorm visibility was limited to about fifty yards.

“What makes you think we’re dragging?” he asked.

“Well, sir, while you were below I took the liberty of going for’ard and feeling the cable. Unless I’m much mistaken the fluke of the anchor’s rasping over the bottom. She mayn’t be dragging fast, but there it is—she ain’t where she was when we dropped the killick.”

This was disconcerting news. Even supposing the pinnace was drifting to lee’ard slowly, the danger of striking the reefs was none the less—it was merely a question of time, unless, in the meanwhile, the anchor obtained a firm hold.

That was supposing the leading stoker would be unable to restart the motor.

Raxworthy waited patiently for some minutes. The inaction gave him food for thought. He pictured the two officers pacing the pier head in the bitter snowstorm and uttering maledictions upon the picket-boat for not being there on time. Next morning the commander would want to know all about it, with the inevitable result that the already disgraced midshipman would be again hauled over the coals for neglecting to keep the boat in efficient working order.

“A merry Christmas for me—I don’t think!” muttered Kenneth for the umpteenth time.

At last the motor awoke into activity.

Kenneth sprang to the wheel. The bowman got to his feet and awaited the order to go for’ard and heave short the cable.

The midshipman was on the point of ordering a “touch ahead” when the engine spluttered and relapsed into silence.

He went below to interview the perspiring leading stoker.

“Can’t make nothing of it, sir,” confessed that worthy. “She won’t have it either on petrol or paraffin. I reckon the jet’s choked.”

“Then for goodness’ sake unship the thing and clean it!” rejoined Kenneth, and waited to see the operation performed.

Whether it was the midshipman’s presence that flurried the man or that his fingers were slippery with oil that was responsible for the mishap was immaterial. The fact remained that the jet fell from the leading stoker’s grasp, glanced from the crank-case and disappeared underneath the tray. Without unbolting and removing the engine—a task that in the circumstances was out of the question—the jet was irrecoverably lost.

Kenneth returned on deck feeling anything but happy. The loss of the jet was a pure accident and no good purpose would be served by slanging the man.

Other steps must be taken to extricate the picket-boat from her hazardous position—and again Kenneth rose to the occasion.

“Motor’s konked, Wilson,” he announced laconically. “I’m letting off some Verey lights and then the steam pinnace will be along to take us in tow.”

The coxswain, behind the midshipman’s back, shrugged his shoulders and thought it was about time that he kicked off his sea-boots.

Searching in one of the lockers, Kenneth found the Verey pistol. Inserting a cartridge he fired into the air.

Two hundred feet above the boat the rocket burst into a red glare, but so heavy was the fall of snow that only a faint glimmer was visible from the cockpit. Obviously, then, the signal of distress would be totally invisible from the Kirkham, which was now at least a mile and a half to wind’ard. Nor would the report be heard. Nothing short of wireless, which the picket-boat did not possess, would establish communication with the light cruiser on such a night.

Kenneth fired three more lights from the Verey pistol before giving up hope of aid by this means.

“Seems a bit of a wash-out, Wilson,” he remarked.

“ ‘Fraid so, sir,” agreed the coxswain. “Might be a jolly sight worse, though. It strikes me that killick’s got a firm hold now, so all we can do is to stand by till daylight or until this snowstorm blows over.”

“The officers waiting on Mautby jetty will be feeling pretty sick of it,” observed the midshipman.

Wilson snorted.

“If officers take it into their heads to go on the beach on a night like this—even though it’s Christmas Eve—it’s up to them to make the best of it. We’ve troubles of our own enough. Look here, sir, suppose you turn into the cabin for a spell. It’s pretty parky out here.”

It certainly was cold. Except for the fore-deck that was being continuously swept by the seas, the picket-boat was white with frozen snow. Even the side lights were blocked by a mixture of ice and snow. To go for’ard without hanging on tooth and nail was to risk slipping on the deck and pitching overboard.

Kenneth’s sou’wester and the front of his oilskin coat were white with frozen snow. His face smarted painfully under the onslaught of the sleet, while by contrast his gloved hands were numbed by the cold.

Undoubtedly it was a great temptation to take his coxswain’s advice and shelter in the little cabin immediately for’ard of the cockpit, but he resisted it. If the coxswain and bowman could stick it it was up to him to share the discomforts with his crew.

“I’m all right, really,” he protested, although his chattering teeth belied the statement. “I’d better hang on here just in case. I say: is there any grub on board?”

“I don’t think so, sir,” replied the coxswain. “Are you hungry, sir?”

“No,” replied Raxworthy. “But you fellows—you had supper at one bell and nothing since.”

“That’s a fact, sir,” agreed his coxswain.

The last official meal in a ship is late in the afternoon and is called supper. If a man requires a meal later in the evening he has to buy it in the canteen. Apparently the crew of the picket-boat had not eaten anything since half-past four. The midshipman was better off in that respect. He had had dinner and by now he was feeling decidedly peckish. He wondered how hungry the hands were.

“Then it’s a case of tightening our belts, Wilson,” he remarked. “Carry on smoking: that’ll take the edge off a bit.”

The time dragged with leaden feet. The storm showed no sign of abating. If anything the wind was increasing in strength, and the snow squalls were heavier than earlier in the night. No doubt the commander, alarmed by the non-return of the motor-picket-boat would have sent away the steam pinnace to search for the absentee, but on such a night it would be a case of looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The pinnace might conceivably pass within half a cable’s length of the disabled picket-boat without being aware of her presence.

Suddenly the picket-boat swung broadside on to a huge wave. The crest swept completely over the boat, almost filling the cockpit and throwing Kenneth violently against the lee coaming.

Even as he struggled to regain his breath—for the force of the blow and a mouthful of icy water had rendered him almost speechless—the midshipman heard Wilson exclaim:

“That’s done it, sir! She’s parted her cable!”

V

Without waiting for orders the bowman fought his way for’ard, hanging on like grim death as wave after wave swept over the violently rolling boat.

Then he fought his way back with the information that the chain had parted at the fairlead. That meant that the anchor and all the chain outside the boat were lying useless on the bed of Junk Harbour, and that the picket-boat, if she did not founder in the meantime in spite of watertight bulkheads, would sooner or later be hurled against the dreaded Mutches unless something hardly less than a miracle intervened.

The leading stoker, realizing by the different motion of the boat that something was amiss, thrust head and shoulders out of the engine-room hatch only to disappear hurriedly as a wave-top gave him an icy shower bath.

Catching sight of the man, Kenneth had an inspiration. Since the leading stoker was now useless in his official capacity he might just as well be out of the engine-room. In the event of the picket-boat striking he would be drowned like a rat in a trap if he remained at his post. On deck he stood the same chance as the rest, which was about as poor as that of a man attempting to swim Niagara rapids.

“Pass the word for Brown to come on deck and bring an ash bucket,” shouted the midshipman.

In spite of the noise of wind and sea the bowman understood. He made his way to the engine-room hatch and communicated the midshipman’s orders to the leading stoker.

The ash bucket was a substantial affair, far stronger, heavier and larger than those for ordinary domestic use. It might serve for a makeshift sea-anchor.

Under Raxworthy’s directions the crew bent the sternfast—a stout rope used for making fast alongside a ship or a jetty—to the handle of the bucket and then threw the latter overboard. In order to obtain the best results and to allow the boat to ride head to wind, the improvised sea-anchor should have been led from the bows, but in the existing circumstances time was too precious and the risk of working on the fore-deck too great for that operation to be performed. The point was to bring the boat out of the trough of the sea, and since it was impracticable for her to lie bows on to the waves, the next best thing was to ride stern foremost to them.

For some minutes—a period of anxious suspense—nothing happened beyond a slight jerking strain upon the sternfast. Then slowly but surely the boat’s bows paid off until she presented her stern to the direction of wind and waves.

Although the ash bucket was not so effective as a sea-anchor of the accepted type in that it was insufficient to check her drift to any considerable extent, it had a result that was even better. The picket-boat was driving steadily before the wind, and on that account was riding easier. Wave after wave, that otherwise would have poured over her transom, swept harmlessly by.

Apparently this was only hastening the seemingly inevitable end. Already above the whine of the wind could be heard the noise of the breakers as they hurled themselves with irresistible fury upon the Mutches, the rocks of which were still invisible in the blackness of the night.

Moved by a common impulse the ratings began to throw off their oilskins and sea-boots. As they did so, the leading stoker promptly scrambled into the oilskin coat discarded by the coxswain.

“What’s the idea, mate?” demanded the latter.

“May as well be warm and comfortable until I find myself in the blinkin’ ditch!” was Brown’s imperturbable explanation.

The roar of the breakers grew louder and louder. Surely, thought Kenneth, the end could not be long delayed. A thousand thoughts flashed across his mind. It seemed hard lines to have to be drowned at his age—just as he was enjoying life. . . . And on Christmas Eve, too. . . . No, by Jove! He was forgetting—it wasn’t Christmas Eve but Christmas Day.

Then a sort of strange fatalism gripped him. He was not going to show the white feather before his men if he could help it. He was feeling funky; there was no denying that; but although he knew he was afraid he feared still more that his crew would detect it.

Almost mechanically, Kenneth grasped the wheel. Until the boat struck he would be at his post. Aimlessly he turned the spokes and, somewhat to his surprise, he found that up to a certain point the picket-boat responded to the alteration in helm. She was driving so rapidly through the water that she answered to her rudder.

Suddenly Kenneth caught sight of a column of spray showing ghost-like through the darkness. It was the breakers on one of the outlying ledges of the Mutches.

Instinctively the midshipman put the wheel hard over. It was almost an involuntary act, like that of a man raising his arm to ward off a blow; but, almost providentially, the picket-boat turned decidedly to starboard.

Then, aided by the back-wash from the almost perpendicular rock for which she had been heading, the picket-boat was hurled almost broadside on through a gap in the line of cliffs—an entrance that was practically invisible.

A wall of storm-beaten rock disclosed itself to starboard. Again almost instinctively Kenneth attempted to put the wheel hard over—this time to starboard.

The wheel resisted his efforts to turn it. He wrenched at it, putting his whole weight into the attempt, but in vain.

Once more the wheel had jammed!

Even in the midst of peril Raxworthy found himself wishing that the commander were on board just to convince him that the gear was defective. It was solely owing to the Bloke’s pig-headedness that the picket-boat was in this desperate plight and that, instead of enjoying his Christmas leave, the victim of the commander’s undeserved displeasure was now face to face with death.

Again the boat was broadside-on. Apparently the strain had caused the sternfast to part, and the ash-bucket was no longer acting as a sort of brake. It was now keeping company with the lost anchor and cable on the bed of Junk Harbour.

In the circumstances the boat ought by this time to be pounding upon the rocks; but to the astonishment of the midshipman and crew, she was scudding rapidly through a sort of channel between lofty and almost perpendicular walls of rock.

Momentarily the crested breakers decreased in height until the picket-boat was rising and falling on a succession of sullen waves. The wind, too, had eased down owing to a bend in the channel bringing one side of the cliff wall to wind’ard.

Kenneth could hardly realize this huge slice of luck. It was a thousand to one chance, and the boat had happened upon the one and only hope of salvation.

She had been swept by wind and a strong flood tide through a passage—little wider than her own length—into a comparatively sheltered haven in one of the islands comprising the dreaded Mutches.

VI

But the danger was by no means over even though it was not so formidable as before.

Kenneth was ignorant of the haven. As far as he could remember it was not shown on the Admiralty charts. In all probability—and the set of the tidal current pointed to this—it was merely a channel with a wider outlet on the seaward side of the Mutches. Unless the picket-boat could bring up—a difficult business since she had lost her anchor—or beach herself in a sheltered part of the haven, the odds were that she would be swept out to sea—unless she ended her career on the fringe of jagged rocks on the eastern side of the group of islands comprising the Mutches.

“See any light, Wilson?” inquired Kenneth anxiously, as he peered through the snow-laden darkness.

“No, sir. Maybe there are some cottages on the island, but people aren’t likely to be up at this time of morning—even though it’s Christmas Day. . . . I’ll nip for’ard now she’s riding easily an’ overrun the painters. Without a killick they ain’t much use for us to bring up, but one never knows.”

Raxworthy at the useless wheel watched the coxswain as he made his way to the fore-deck. Even at that distance the man’s form was barely distinguishable in the darkness.

Suddenly a tall shape loomed up across the path of the scudding picket-boat. For a moment Kenneth imagined that it was a rock rising sheer out of the water.

Then through the eddying sleet came a hail from the coxswain.

“Ship ahoy! Take our line, will you?”

Almost immediately the picket-boat drove across the bows of an anchored craft—a sailing vessel, judging by the bowsprit and foremast that were just discernible against the sky.

The impact, although it sounded severe, was fortunately a light one, the sailing craft’s tautened cable taking the force of the collision.

The picket-boat heeled until her starboard waterways were well awash; then recovering, hung irresolutely against the other craft’s stern.

As she held thus, the coxswain, with great presence of mind, passed a bight of one of the painters round the anchored vessel’s cable; and presently the picket-boat, grating astern over the heavy chain, brought up alongside the craft with which she had collided.

Over the latter’s low bulwark appeared the head and shoulders of one of the crew.

“Take our line!” reiterated Wilson.

The man remained staring open-mouthed at the boat alongside. He stood there for perhaps a quarter of a minute, then without attempting to make fast the second painter which Wilson had heaved on board, he disappeared from sight.

“Perishing blighter!” ejaculated the coxswain contemptuously as he coiled in the disregarded painter. “She’s holding, sir. I’ll just nip aboard and secure her properly. I reckon we’re nicely out of this mess.”

“Lay out a couple of fenders first,” ordered the midshipman; for now that all immediate danger was over he was not going to risk a further reprimand from the commander for damaging the picket-boat’s side. Although there was now little more than a heavy ground swell the two craft were rolling considerably to the detriment of the naval boat’s paintwork.

“Ay, ay, sir!”

The hands fended the picket-boat off until the coir fenders were placed in position, with the result that instead of a disconcerting succession of grinding thuds as woodwork banged against woodwork, the fender took practically all the chafe.

“What’s up with the fellow we saw on board?” inquired Kenneth.

Wilson, putting on his sea-boots once more, spat contemptuously over the side.

“Measly rat! He’d have let us drift past without raising a finger to bear a hand. Maybe he’s scared stiff—thinks we’re ghosts doing a little round o’ visits at Christmas! Suppose I nip on board and see what’s doing, sir?”

“Carry on, then,” agreed the midshipman. “Mind you don’t get a crack over the head from a scared-stiff ship-keeper.”

“Trust me to look after myself, sir,” rejoined Wilson confidently.

The other craft turned out to be a schooner with old-fashioned chain plates and projecting platforms fitted with dead eyes to which the shrouds were secured. Her bulwarks were from six to ten feet above the picket-boat’s deck—according to the relative roll of both craft—but the chain plate was well within the coxswain’s reach.

Waiting his opportunity, Wilson gripped the lanyards of one pair of dead-eyes and swung himself up. His feet slithered upon the accumulation of frozen snow that had lodged upon the chain plate, but his grasp was a powerful one.

Recovering his foothold he scrambled over the bulwarks and disappeared from the midshipman’s sight.

In a few seconds he reappeared.

“Chuck me up the spare painter, Nobbie!” he hailed, addressing the bowman. “There ain’t no one on deck, so I’ll take the liberty of making all fast myself!”

As soon as the second painter was secured the coxswain picked up a coil of rope that was lying on the schooner’s deck and dropped one end into the picket-boat’s stern-sheets.

“That’ll do for a sternfast, sir!” he explained. “With the helm as it is she’ll take a sheer and lie quietly. I’ll be back in a brace of shakes.”

But it was a long “brace of shakes”.

Kenneth shivering in the biting wind, for the hull of the schooner offered little or no protection from the keen blast, began to grow anxious concerning the absent coxswain. There seemed something decidedly uncanny about the schooner—moored in a practically unknown anchorage and showing no riding lights. There was, of course, nothing unusual about having a man on deck. Apparently he was keeping anchor watch; but what was unusual was the fact that he had declined to secure the picket-boat’s rope and after looking over the side for a short while had disappeared from sight. If he had gone to rouse the master and the rest of the crew they would have turned out long before this.

And what had happened to Wilson? Had he been attacked by the fellow they had just seen? It was quite possible that the man might have had a fright and have hit the coxswain over the head with a belaying pin the moment he gained the deck of the schooner. Or Wilson might have slipped on the snow-covered deck and pitched head foremost down an open hatchway.

Where was the ship-keeper? If he had deserted the ship, by what means had he left her? Hardly by swimming, since the low temperature was sufficient to benumb the strongest man in a few minutes.

And what was the schooner doing there, riding to a single anchor and without displaying a light of any description? The whole business looked decidedly fishy, but for the present Raxworthy was content to take what the gods offered. Here was a temporary shelter from the winter’s gale. Even under the bleakest conditions it was preferable to lie alongside the mysterious vessel rather than to face death in the aimlessly drifting picket-boat.

Nevertheless, Kenneth’s anxiety on the score of his absent coxswain increased as time wore on. He was debating with himself whether he should send someone in search of him when Wilson’s sou’wester-crowned face appeared over the bulwark.

“Crickey, sir!” exclaimed the coxswain. “If this ain’t a rum go! Can you come on board, sir, and see for yourself.”

VII

For a moment Midshipman Raxworthy hesitated—not that he was afraid to board the sombre, mysterious craft, but because it meant leaving the picket-boat of which he was in command and consequently responsible for its safety.

Apparently Wilson noticed his superior officer’s hesitation.

“She’ll be all right, sir,” he declared. “Both painters properly secured and the sternfast as well. Since we’ve to make a night of it maybe you’ll order the hands on board too. It’s a jolly sight more comfortable than being frozen stiff in our hooker!”

Kenneth looked at the coxswain in astonishment. What did he mean by declaring that the apparently abandoned schooner was better than the picket-boat?

“Right-o!” he rejoined, “I’ll come aboard.”

“Hang on a minute, sir!” cautioned Wilson. “The deck’s as slippery as a skating-rink. Wait till I drop a Jacob’s ladder over the side.”

A moment later and a wire rope ladder with wooden rungs was lowered from the schooner’s bulwarks.

Cautiously the midshipman made his way up and gained the deck.

“Here we are, sir!” was the coxswain’s greeting. “A nice little home from home!”

At first glance there was nothing to bear out Wilson’s statement.

The schooner was flush decked except for a cargo hatch extending between fore and mainmasts. Over the hatch was a tarpaulin, one end of which was turned back. Right for’ard was a large windlass; immediately abaft it the hatchway giving access to the fo’c’sle. This was secured by a padlock. Right aft was a raised structure giving protection to the helmsman. In front of it was the companion leading to the skipper’s cabin, while between it and the mainmast was a small skylight which was also partly covered by a tarpaulin. Through the portion of the glass laid bare by the folded canvas came a glimmer of yellow light that played upon the main boom and the loosely furled mainsail.

Over everything lay a deep mantle of snow broken by footprints that were not all caused by the sea-boots of the picket-boat’s coxswain. In fact there was a regular lane between the after companion hatchway and the port quarter, while the rail had been newly freed from snow in the vicinity of a pair of empty davits, the lower blocks of the falls beating a hollow tattoo with each roll of the schooner.

“The crew did a bunk, sir, just before I got on board,” explained Wilson. “Must have lowered their boat and got away. Mighty quiet they were over it, too! I never heard a sound!”

“Guilty consciences, Wilson!” declared Kenneth. “Obviously the look-out spotted a naval craft bearing down. He gave the alarm and the crew took to the boat.”

“Don’t see why, sir.”

“Because it’s my belief that we have surprised a smuggling vessel!”

Wilson shook his head.

“It’s not for me to argue with an officer, sir; but respectful-like I beg to differ. Just cast your eye down the hold, sir!”

Kenneth did so.

To his amazement he found that almost the entire space was occupied by a long table covered with a white table-cloth. There were cups, saucers and plates sufficient for twenty or thirty people, a huge iced cake decorated with holly, and several shallow wicker baskets piled high with oranges and other fruits. Except for a solitary hurricane lamp the hold was unlighted, but there were about a dozen unlighted ones each festooned with evergreens. Signal flags covered the bulkheads, while traced in somewhat straggling letters was the greeting: A MERRY CHRISTMASS TO——

The artist’s handiwork had probably been interrupted by the arrival of the picket-boat.

The table was certainly of a temporary nature and laid without regard to the possibility of the schooner rolling in bad weather. There were no fiddles to keep the plates, cups and saucers from sliding to the deck, while no attempt had been made to secure the pyramids of fruit from a similar fate. A feast was apparently to be held there in the day—it was now four o’clock in the morning—but for whom? The schooner’s crew was not likely to exceed seven or eight; where were the remainder of the feasters coming from? Almost certainly from one of the inhabited islands comprising the Mutches. Why, then, did the schooner’s crew, making preparations for a Christmas Day treat to the fisherfolk of the island, suddenly desert their vessel with every indication of panic?

The coxswain, on being asked for his explanation, fell back upon his previous theory.

“They thought we were ghosts, sir; and cleared off as fast as they knew how.”

“Perhaps they are still on board—or, at least, some of them,” suggested Kenneth.

“They can’t have made a bolt for the forepeak and put a padlock on outside after they were in,” said Wilson. “May be there is someone aft. I just glanced through the skylight but didn’t take particular notice.”

“We’ll see,” decided the midshipman.

He was the first to descend the steep wooden ladder aft. A waft of warm air mingled with the odour of roasting meat greeted him. Compared with the bitter wind without and the gnawing pangs of hunger of which he was beginning to be acutely conscious, this silent greeting from the skipper’s quarters was particularly welcome.

There was a bulkhead lamp burning in the lobby at the foot of the ladder. To starboard was the galley with an anthracite stove burning. On it were three saucepans simmering gently and prevented from sliding off by a low railing. In the oven was a large piece of beef which was showing indications of being overdone.

“That’ll be good grub wasted if it stops there,” remarked Wilson. He found a cloth and smartly removed the baking dish from the oven.

“Smells good, by Jove!” exclaimed Kenneth.

“And we’re hungry,” added the coxswain tentatively. “The whole crowd of us, sir!”

“Let’s examine the cabin first,” suggested the midshipman.

There were two cabins aft, one belonging to the skipper and the other to the mate.

In the former a swing table was laid ready for a meal. The captain was apparently more fastidious than the average master of a coasting vessel, for there was a clean linen cloth on the table and the knives and forks—set for two—were brightly polished. In a rack within hand’s reach were a number of uncorked wine bottles.

On either side of the cabin stove—which like that of the galley had recently been made up and was burning cheerfully—were bookcases. With one exception all the volumes were French. The charts in the rack, too, were mainly French, although there was a British “blue back” of Junk Harbour with hand-inserted additions.

Although he made a perfunctory search for the ship’s papers, Kenneth failed to find them; but he obtained sufficient evidence to show that the schooner was the Marie Lescaut of Fécamp.

The midshipman summed up the situation. He was aware that a French or a Belgian sailing craft was known to be engaged in smuggling in the vicinity of Mautby Harbour. The fishing protection cruiser Gannet had been on the look-out for her in vain, and now the Kirkham was temporarily taking over the Gannet’s duty. Had it not been for the foreign smuggling craft he, Kenneth, would not have had his Christmas leave jammed. Indirectly that vessel was the cause of the commander’s displeasure.

But so far there was no evidence that the Marie Lescaut was a smuggler. True there was no reason why she should be sheltering in a remote and almost unknown haven in the Mutches. Having landed her contraband cargo—if she had brought one—she would probably have made for the open sea without delay. Why then did she remain and prepare a feast for a score or more? The guests were to be English, as the ill-spelt greeting on the bulkhead indicated. But why, unless they were possessed of guilty consciences, did the Frenchmen abandon their ship?

“Dashed if I’d clear off and leave my grub, sir,” remarked the coxswain, reading the midshipman’s thoughts. “I think I’d be tempted to plug a fellow who came between me and my victuals. Think they’ll be coming back, sir?”

“How do I know?” rejoined Kenneth. “At any rate we’re in possession of an abandoned ship. She’s anchored: that may make a difference, but she wasn’t showing a riding light, so we can take possession of her as a danger to navigation. Not that there’s much chance of any vessel barging along where we are. Pass the word for all hands to come on board for a hot breakfast!”

“But one of us ought to be on deck, just in case,” observed Wilson.

“Exactly,” agreed Midshipman Raxworthy. “I’m keeping watch while the hands feed. After that I’ll tuck in.”

VIII

For the next three-quarters of an hour Kenneth kept his self-imposed vigil on the bleak deck of the Marie Lescaut. It was essential that a look-out should be kept. Although he was cold and hungry his crew were hungrier, and in the navy it is an unwritten code of honour that an officer should see that his men are fed before he has his meal.

The deck was almost too slippery to walk upon. Snow was still falling steadily, although the wind had piped down considerably. It was darker than ever. Although, according to a hasty examination of the chart, Kenneth knew that the schooner was within a cable’s length of land, there was no indication by sight or sound of any other human beings besides the crew of the picket-boat.

Yet caution was essential. If the Frenchmen were smugglers and the inhabitants of the fishing hamlet were in sympathy with them—a probability since the latter derived considerable benefit by their share in dealing with contraband goods—there was the danger of an attempt to recapture the schooner. Provided the odds are in their favour, foreign smugglers often do not hesitate to resort to violence in order to avoid capture, since capture means a heavy fine, the chance of imprisonment and the certainty of having their vessel confiscated.

But nothing untoward happened to break the monotony of the midshipman’s watch. Only the whining of the wind, the rasping of the chain as the Marie Lescaut overran her cable, and the dull grinding of the fenders between the schooner and the picket-boat could be heard from without, although from below decks came sounds of revelry from the latter’s crew.

Presently the coxswain came on deck.

“We’ve cleared away and made all shipshape for you, sir,” he reported. “Your grub’s being hotted-up, sir. I’ll take over now. Jimmy’s going with Brown to see if they can lay their hands on that jet. If they’re lucky, Brown reckons to get the motor running before very long.”

Kenneth went below and made up for the delay by tucking in to an appetizing repast. Certainly the Frenchmen knew how to cook, and even if the unusual breakfast had suffered somewhat in the process of “hotting-up”, it was none the less welcome.

What with the effect of a plentiful meal and the warmth of the cabin, the midshipman dropped off into a comfortable sleep.

He awoke to find Wilson touching his shoulder.

“Daybreak, sir, and a Merry Christmas! Brown’s found the jet and strained off the juice. There wasn’t half a lot of water in that paraffin!”

“That’s good,” rejoined Kenneth. “But it’s not much use getting the motor to run if our steering-gear’s still jammed. What’s it like outside?”

“I’ll overhaul the steering-gear when it’s a bit lighter, sir,” replied Wilson. “It’s stopped snowing, sir, but there’s a thick fog. You can hardly see the schooner’s bowsprit-end from the eyes of her. I reckon we’d best hang on where we are until it lifts. We aren’t likely to die of starvation,” he added with a laugh.

The morning wore on. The fog held persistently, and although the wind had fallen considerably there was a confused sea running outside. This was evident by the terrific roar of the breakers which almost outvoiced the fog-signal from the lighthouse at the seaward end of the Mutches.

Debating as to whether it would be possible to get to the lighthouse and ask the keepers to communicate with the Kirkham by wireless, Kenneth came to the conclusion that such a step was impracticable unless the request was conveyed by a shore boat. So far no boat from the island had appeared.

The hands then set to work to brush the snow from the deck of the Marie Lescaut and also from the picket-boat. While they were thus engaged the fog lifted locally and for the first time the men noticed that bunches of holly had been fastened to the schooner’s mastheads.

“The Frenchies meant to have a proper Christmas beano,” remarked the bowman. “It doesn’t seem jonnick that we’ve done them out of a bust-out! I remember once in the old Endymion ——”