"O Joy! O Rapture!" exclaimed John Kaye. "At last the mighty stream of demobilization is stayed, Daventry. Forty new hands have come in this morning. There will be a chance of commissioning some more boats. They\'re shouting for you in the Adjutant\'s office, old son."

"What for?" enquired Derek. "S\'pose it\'s not in connection with our demob. or otherwise?"

For weeks Derek and Kaye had been more or less on tenterhooks. Both had applied for permanent commissions in the Marine Branch of the Royal Air Force, and, although their papers had been endorsed with a strong recommendation by the C.O., there appeared to be an endless and exasperating period of suspense.

"Unfortunately, no," replied Kaye. "They are overwhelmed with work in the Adjutant\'s office. The Adjy. hasn\'t had time even to play deck-quoits for the last three days. They want your aid, my festive bravo."

"Rotten luck!" growled Derek. "If there\'s anything I loathe it\'s fugging in an office. Had two half days at it at Torringham, I remember. Didn\'t feel fit for flying for nearly a week. Make the best of it, though, and the sooner the job\'s done the better I\'ll be pleased."

The reason for Derek\'s presence in the office was quickly forthcoming. The forty new arrivals were formed up in the corridor, each man having to furnish particulars of himself in order that the office records might be checked.

"Something wrong here, Daventry," remarked the Adjutant, tossing over a slip of paper on which a pay-room sergeant had written down certain particulars. "George Townley, born 1899, at Itching Abbess—sounds like the head of a nunnery plagued with vermin, eh, what?"

"I\'ll have the man in and see what it means," suggested Derek.

He opened the door. Just outside was the Sergeant engaged in questioning the new arrivals, One was an ex-R.N. able-seaman who had re-engaged for transfer to the R.A.F.

"Three good-conduct stripes, eh?" exclaimed the N.C.O. disdainfully. His acquaintance with conduct stripes was rather a distressful one, he having been disrated twice before he turned over a new leaf. "My opinion of a three-good-conduct-badges man is one who keeps the Commander, Master-at-Arms, and the Mainmast all in a straight line—savvy?"

Catching sight of Derek the Sergeant pulled himself up. He was one of those men who, unfortunately, do exist in all three services—sarcastically overbearing to those under him, and fawningly civil to those in authority.

"What\'s this, Sergeant?" asked Derek, holding out the paper. "There seems to be some mistake about this man\'s birthplace."

"No, sir," replied the N.C.O. with conviction. "I looked the words up in the dictionary to make sure. \'Taint the first man I\'ve come across who can\'t spell."

"Where\'s the man?" asked the Lieutenant.

"Here, sir!"

"Well," began Derek, addressing the airman, "there seems to be some slight doubt concerning the place in which you were born. What is it?"

A suspicion of a smile flitted across the man\'s face.

"Itchen Abbass, sir; a village near Winchester," he replied. "I tried to explain to the Sergeant, but he would have his own way."

For the next month or so Sableridge Training Depot was passing through a dark period of its history. Like other army and air establishments it was suffering from the blight of demobilization. Those officers and men who knew that they might be returned to civil life any day didn\'t trouble in the slightest about duty. Their one idea was to pack up and clear out as quickly as possible. Discipline was lax; vague rumours of the closing down of the station were in the air. On parade the numbers steadily, nay, rapidly, dwindled, until the four "flights" were reduced to a tenth of their former strength. In the harbour expensive motor-boats were rotting and rusting at their moorings for want of hands to man them and keep them in a state of efficiency.

All this was a disconcerting outlook for men of Derek\'s type. The departing units exercised an undesirable influence on those who were staying on, while, what was worse, they gave a cue to the new recruits.

"We\'re sending you to the doctor this morning, old son," announced the Adjutant to Derek. "All officers applying for permanent commissions are to be medically examined before noon."

Derek heard the tidings without emotion. He remembered his first medical examination for the service; how it filled him with trepidation, as he feared that the doctor would discover some defect hitherto unknown to him. Since that time Daventry had become case-hardened. The examination, which might prove an ordeal to many, hardly troubled him in the least.

The R.A.M.C. Captain, an elderly man, whose rugged features and bull voice were merely foils to a kindly and sympathetic nature, wasted no time.

"You\'re O.K., Daventry," he declared, "fit as a fiddle. I\'ll put you in A category. That means you\'re all right for aerial work. Why, what\'s the matter? You don\'t look pleased."

There was an expression of perplexity in Derek\'s face. A few months previously he would have hailed with delight the prospect of being a knight of the air once more; now a different feeling had arisen. The innate seaman\'s instinct had developed. He loved the sea; the actual marine work at Sableridge fascinated him. The thought of having to sever his connection with the depot rather staggered him.

"It\'s the uncertainty of everything that\'s worrying me," remarked the doctor, after Derek had explained. "Here am I, Medical Officer of Health to a large manufacturing district, hanging about here with precious little to do, while there are tons of work awaiting me at home. The authorities can\'t make up their minds, or if they can they won\'t, and the consequence is I\'m at a loose end. Now, only the other day——"

Just then the doctor\'s flow of oratory was cut short by the arrival of a messenger.

"Mr. Daventry here, sir?" he enquired. "The Major wants to see him at once."

Hastily donning his tunic Derek made his way to the room of the Second in Command.

"Oh, Daventry," began the Major, returning his subordinate\'s salute. "I\'ve a little stunt for you. There\'s a wireless message just been received at Baxton and telephoned on to us. A large seaplane has been forced to descend here"—he placed his finger on a large chart of the English Channel—"latitude so and so; longitude so and so. Why she\'s come down we don\'t know, but she\'s wirelessed for assistance. I want you to take R.A.F. 1292 B and make for her at full speed. Get hold of her and take her in tow. I\'ll send No. 21 to give a hand in case she\'s too much of a handful. 1292 B has plenty of petrol, I hope?"

"Yes, sir," replied Derek. "Filled up this morning."

It was one of Daventry\'s for............