"you don't look particularly happy over the news, old man," remarked one of the officers on the pier-head. "p'raps, like old mouldy here, you think that you'll be out of a job very soon. cheer up, the war's not over yet."

derek made no reply. as a matter of fact he was thinking more about the loss of the sea-plane than the news that germany had thrown up the sponge. the two, taken in conjunction, might make things rather unpleasant for him, since it was evident that the navy, army, and air force must be drastically reduced after the cessation of hostilities —and derek daventry had not had enough of life in the r.a.f. he wanted to remain.

just then someone slapped him vigorously on the back. turning, he found himself face to face with his old flying-chum, john kaye.

"what in the name of goodness brings you down here?" asked derek.

"joined the marine branch at sableridge yesterday," replied kaye. "of course you took jolly good care to be out of the way when i wanted a pal to take me by the hand and show me the ropes. so when your two packets were sighted coming over the bar i came down to the pier to give you my candid opinion of your perfidious desertion. had a good time?"

"just so so," answered derek.

"then we're in for a lively evening, old thing," chipped in another officer. "we've packed up for the rest of the day. there's a football match on this afternoon, and to-night we all go to the theatre and let 'em know what an armistice means. so cut and shift, you salt-encrusted ancient mariner."

but there was work to do before derek could be at liberty. the spare gear had to be taken out of the boats; the boats themselves had to be moored to their respective buoys; the crews had to be marched off, and their officer had to satisfy himself that they were able to obtain a belated dinner. then there was his report to be made out and submitted to the c.o.

greatly to his surprise and satisfaction the report was favourably received. in view of the circumstances, it was conceded that the officer in charge of the boats had extricated himself with skill and determination. the loss of the sea-plane was considered to be unavoidable, and, as a telegram had been received from the coast-guards at thorbury head saying that she had drifted ashore practically uninjured, the work of salvage had to be undertaken at the first favourable opportunity.

armistice night was, to quote the general consensus of opinion, a topping rag. earlier in the evening all the men who could be spared were taken into the town by "liberty-boats", otherwise three large motor-lorries. shortly afterwards the officers followed, every available motor-vehicle on the station being pressed into service. derek and kaye, together with seven other kindred spirits, crowded into and upon a car normally constructed to hold five, including the driver, two officers riding on the footboard, while another perched himself upon the bonnet.

fifty yards behind came another similarly-laden car, followed by a third, and possibly it was solely tolerance on the part of the local police that every officer of the depot was not summoned to appear before the bench for exceeding the speed limit.

upon approaching the limits of the town the speedy cortège reduced its pace considerably. through crowds of wildly-excited people the cars threaded their way. no one yet knew the terms of the armistice. they were perfectly convinced in their own minds that the war was virtually over and that the allies were top dog. it was an occasion for jollification, and the opportunity was seized.

"some crowd, eh, what?" remarked kaye.

"rather," agreed derek. "but what strikes me most is the display of street lamps. after years of almost total darkness at night one can hardly recognize the town in its blaze of light. hallo! here we are."

the cars came to a standstill outside the theatre. into the first two rows of the stalls trooped the royal air force contingent, determined to have, at all costs, a topping rag. it was a dull play, but the audience amply atoned for its shortcomings. the members of the orchestra were invited to partake of bitter lemons, to the discomfiture of the wind-instrumentalists; the principal actors were presented with huge bouquets of cabbages and carrots; the manager was bombarded with requests for a speech, and was unmercifully ragged when he responded to the vociferous invitation. the pièce de résistance was the appearance upon the stage of his worship the mayor, who did his level best to deliver a patriotic harangue, at the conclusion of which he was solemnly presented with a titanic replica of a gorgeous jewel (tinselled cardboard) purporting to be the o.b.e.

then, at the conclusion of the impromptu performance, the r.a.f. contingent filed out into the crowded street, to make their way to an hotel to enjoy a sumptuous supper in the unwonted setting of a brilliantly-lighted room with uncurtained windows. it was merely one way of bidding defiance to d.o.r.a., but it was symbolical of the beginning of a new regime.

during the ensuing week there was very little serious work done at the depot. it was a period of rejoicing, to which was added the disquieting consideration that sooner or later demobilization would bring its disturbing influence to bear upon efficiency. followed a series of congratulatory calls between the officers of the various naval and military establishments in the district.

one of these was a visit to the coastal airship establishment at downbury. why the motor-cars on the return journey took a wrong turning and did not arrive at sableridge till two o'clock in the morning was never satisfactorily explained, but upon returning the adjutant discovered that he had left behind his favourite stick, fashioned from the blade of an air-propeller, with a top turned from the fuse-cap of a boche shell that, fortunately for the present owner, had failed to explode.

enquiries on the telephone next morning elicited the information that the stick was left in the mess at downbury, and would be sent during the day.

just before eleven two large coastal airships were seen making over sableridge. manoeuvred with a skill acquired by long practice, the huge gasbags began to circle over the depot, one of their crew actually attempting to remove the colonel's flag from the masthead of the flagstaff outside the officers' quarters. by means of semaphore a lively exchange of compliments passed between the airmen up aloft and the airmen on the ground, while the former continued to show their stunt turns in a manner that caused the onlookers to anticipate a collision with the chimney-pots. then, describing a curve over the harbour, one of the airships dropped an object to which was attached a bunch of streamers. with a splash the thing struck the water and floated vertically. it was the missing stick. promptly a motor-boat pushed off from the pier and retrieved the returned property, then, with a final exchange of compliments, the two blimps flew back to their sheds.

next morning the signal officer's face looked grave. a letter, purporting to be an official document, had been handed to him. it was signed "senior naval officer, fisherton", and requested an explanation why a white ensign, the jealously-guarded emblem of the pukka royal navy, was flown from the gaff of the flagstaff of a royal air force establishment.

the whole thing was a hoax on the part of dixon, the lieutenant, r.n.v.r., commanding the guard-ship at sableridge, and the r.a.f. signal officer "bit it badly". it was not until a reply had been drafted and submitted to the commanding officer of the depot that dixon let the cat out of the bag. it was the first round of a friendly contest between the r.n. and the r.a.f., and the former was "one up".

when the men fell in parade that next morning the white ensign was not flying. in its place dangled a large earthenware jug, a silent tribute on the part of the sableridge signalling officer to the guard-ship officer's capacity for stowing away mild ale. it was as well that it was armistice week and the c.o. was in a tolerant mood, for the incident passed off without rebuke. r.n. and r.a.f. were now "honours even".

next day the guard-ship was to be "paid off". after four years she was to be released from her moorings and towed back to fisherton, and the departure of a time-honoured veteran could not take place without a farewell demonstration on the part of the royal air force at sableridge.

at two o'clock in the morning a small but desperate band of adventurers turned out of their camp-beds. there were derek daventry, clad in trench-coat, pyjamas, sea-boots, and muffler; dennis, the adjutant, muffled in a sweater, two greatcoats, and a pair of flying-boots; wells, the signalling officer, and kaye. the latter carried a small bundle of rag liberally smeared with vaseline.

it was a pitch-dark night. the stars were obscured by heavy, low-lying clouds. a keen easterly wind moaned through the fortress and hummed through the rigging of the guard-ship.

softly the desperadoes made their way to the pier, three of them sheltering under the lee of the signal-house, while the fourth groped for the painter and stern-post of a small dinghy.

"any signs of 'em?" asked dennis.

"not a movement," whispered wells. "the watch on deck is evidently having a caulk. got the dinghy ready yet, kaye?"

"can't find the rotten ropes," complained kaye. "ugh! isn't it horribly cold? why did i leave my little back room——? hallo! someone's tied a granny in the rope, and my fingers are frozen stiff."

"not so much row there," cautioned dennis. "if you can't unlash the thing, cut it. now then, you fellows, don't capsize the boat and throw us into the ditch. how's the tide?"

"on the flood," replied derek. "oars muffled? kaye, you rotter, you've put more vaseline on the thwarts than you have upon the rag round the rowlocks. i thought i was on the skating-rink for the moment. all ready? give way."

very silently the deeply-laden little craft pushed off. partly paddled, partly carried by the tide, the boat neared the dark-grey bows of the guard-ship.

"who's got the quart pot?" whispered dennis. "you, daventry—no? how about you, kaye? no luck? i say, you blighters, don't all say you've left the beastly thing on the pier."

cautious groping resulted in the discovery that the earthenware trophy was not in the boat. in the darkness the conspirators had left it perched precariously on the bottom step of the landing-stage.

"together!" hissed the adjutant. "don't splash so, kaye. you sent a shower down my back, and the water's horribly cold. 'sides, you're making an awful row. old man dixon will be roused out of his beauty-sleep, and our little stunt will be a proper wash-out."

it was a hard tussle to regain the pier, for the spring tide was swirling viciously. the signalling officer managed to grab the jug and deposit it in the stern-sheets, and once more the raiders approached the silent and unsuspecting guard-ship.

deftly derek bent the boat's painter to a deadeye in the vessel's chains, and allowed the dinghy to drop astern until she lay alongside the jacob's ladder that served as an accommodation-ladder. one by one the four swarmed up and gained the guard-ship's deck. here they waited, listening intently. the wind, moaning dismally through the rigging, failed to outvoice the nasal efforts of the three men forming the guard-ship's crew. the lieutenant, berthed aft, was also soundly asleep.

wells nudged derek in the ribs, and handed him the earthenware pitcher. very cautiously the two commenced to mount the creaking ladder to the bridge, while dennis and kaye remained by the gangway, ready to cover their comrades' retreat should their presence be detected.

it did not take the signalling officer long to uncleat the masthead halyards. these he bent to the handle of the jug, at the same time inserting a piece of brass wire through the rope so that it would render through the sheaves in the masthead truck, but refuse to return when once a strain was put upon it.

up into the darkness rose the fragile trophy. more than once it struck dully against the top-mast, fortunately without breaking. lost to view, it announced its arrival at the top-mast head in no unmistakable manner. a sharp jerk, and the metal pin was released. the jug was almost literally nailed to the mast; until a hand was sent aloft—and it was hardly likely that any of the ancient mariners composing the guard-ship's crew could essay the feat—there it must perforce remain.

the work of re-embarkation was performed with more haste than discretion, the adjutant stepping confidently into fifteen feet of water instead of into the boat. with praiseworthy devotion to the great cause, he refrained from audible comment in spite of the fact that wells grabbed him by the hair. unfortunately dennis had adopted the latest fashion of allowing his hair to grow fairly long and to brush it back from his forehead. it made an excellent hand-grip for the signalling officer's massive and horny paw, but nevertheless the operation was a painful one.

at the risk of capsizing the dinghy, the adjutant was hauled in, and the return trip was accomplished without further incident.

exultant but shivering, the four officers made their way back to their quarters, and turned in to sleep the sleep of men who had achieved their ends.

directly derek awoke he sprang out of his folding bed and hastened to the window. in the pale-grey dawn he could see the outlines of the guard-ship silhouetted against the light. aloft the trophy hung in uninterrupted serenity.

"tug's alongside the guard-ship," announced the adjutant at breakfast. "let's go down to the pier and give her a good send-off."

practically every r.a.f. officer on the station hurried out of the building and crowded on the pier-head. crowds of men lined the shore, while dozens of civilian spectators appeared to watch the departure of one of the links of the great war—the humble coaster that for the last four years had, under the authority of the white ensign, prevented all unauthorized craft from leaving or entering fisherton harbour.

the royal air force had made up its mind to give its departing confrère a fitting farewell. from the signal yard-arm on the pier fluttered a triple hoist of flags: "good-bye; good luck". klaxon horns, sirens, and the long-neglected trumpet blared forth in noisy lament; petrol-tins, on which to beat a rousing tattoo, were pressed into service; while the steam-tug, straining at the hawser, responded with a succession of strident whoops.

slowly the guard-ship swung round and shaped a course for fisherton, following obediently in the wake of the tug. on her bridge stood the burly figure of genial lieutenant dixon as he waved an acknowledgment of the exuberant welcome. fifty feet above his head dangled the earthenware jug.

"he doesn't know it's there," remarked derek.

"then he jolly well will do so," rejoined the signalling officer, and, grasping a pair of hand-flags, he steadied himself on the pier-head rail.

"guard-ship, what's that at your fore top-mast head?" he signalled.

the r.n.v.r. lieutenant glanced aloft. for a moment he looked puzzled, then he realized that honours were no longer even. the r.a.f. were "one up".

a broad smile suffused his features. snatching up a pair of hand-flags he semaphored:

"thanks; but why didn't you fill it before you returned it?"