"Steam for full speed by 8 a.m." - Captain's Order Book.

A BLUE steam-hot haze, through which the beams of a few staring electric bulbs struggle but dimly; the steady hiss of hot vapour from afar off ; the solid ticking of the clock over the log-desk ; the sound of shuffling boots on hollow plating; the occasional voices of men muttering in the gloom; and the vast looming form of the monster engine in whose mighty den we stand.

It is 5 a.m., and very cold on deck. The Midshipman of the morning watch thoughtfully paces the upper-deck battery in overcoat and sea-boots, reflecting over his triumphs and the sorrows of the sea. Only three short hours ago the nicest girl in the world had asked him to take her in to supper, and had there requested mournfully and for the last time that he should not go away and leave her. And now, alas! here he is, about to leave for good. She had been dressed, he remembers it had been a fancy ball-to imitate a poppy, which she had done, he thought, with huge success ; and her long hair had streamed excellently and delightfully down her back. He walks up to the battery door, the champagne and chicken still tasting in his mouth, and stares sadly up at the great yellow funnels which stand abreast like huge monuments pointing to the sky ; and as he looks a lump of black and heavy smoke rolls suddenly from their tops as an omen of approaching departure. It widens, rises, and slowly disappears before his eyes. Turning sorrowfully away, he resumes his lonely march. Presently the officer of the watch appears, and they walk together, comparing dance notes in low voices under the lee of the big after-barbette.

A Quartermaster stands at the silent gangway, and two bare-footed signalmen keep their everlasting dogged watch above. The fore-bridge sentry is swinging his arms for warmth, leaning his rifle temporarily against the chart-house door ; but beyond this the ship is still as death. Seven hundred souls asleep, and the monster Fleet around all dozing on the dark water - no move, no sound. Our Quartermaster yawns and walks to the ship's side, rolling his quid. How strange is this great hush! The Fleet seems dead. But under this pleasant restfulness and silence there lurks a life far down and hidden in the iron depths below, but still a life - compared mechanically to which the life of man is but as the life of a slug to a racehorse - a tearing, thrilling, throbbing energy, which in its monster strength nearly spoils imagination. Slumbering in each of these steel leviathans lies the pent-up energy of all the cavalry in India, with mules and stores thrown in; and not disposed, like the rush of an army, loosely or in ragged parts, not spread in helpless units over hopeless miles, not open to panic or capable of fear, but certain, clean and absolute - vast, contained, applied. And even as we watch now in the chill morning, that force is rising in the long steel arteries and slowly trembling through the huge frames, and waking from its harbour sleep to drive the fourteen-thousand ton cities forth again to sea like the feathers that they are. For this morning at 8 a.m. the orders are to weigh.

And already the blackened smoke rolls quicker from the funnels, fed from the four great stokeholds below. In each of these are men, black from head to foot, hard at it with pick and hammer and shovel, waking up the fires. In one corner some are scratching coal out of the bunker doors and loading it on trollies, which others haul with a thundering roar across the plating to the furnace doors and tip up sprawling on the plates in front, ready for the specialists who work the fires. These have been lighted long ago, and now simply need caring for and feeding. There are sixteen fires in this one stoke-hold, and each must be kept clean and blazing for the next three days and nights of steaming, watched and tended with loving care hour by hour and day by day till the welcome gongs ring down again from the bridges, and the anchors rattle from the cat-heads in some new harbour across another sea.

The door or the farthest fire is thrown open, and a splendid glare sweeps the black iron walls, showing up the implements all slung overhead, the pitchy openings to the bunkers, and the grim, iron faces of the blackened men sweating in the dust and moil. And then the stoker of that fire, standing a little back, sends shovel after shovelful of coal flying cleanly through the little opening and landing in appointed places round and behind the fire. Nothing drops in the middle, nothing hits the side of the little oval door ; but with splendid straight strokes from the shoulder he drives each helping clean into its place with absolute certainty and skill. Stopping an instant, he peers his black devil face into the flaming six-foot horror of the fire, then wraps a rag round hand and shovel, clears the blazing ashes from the mouth, and clangs the door again across the hole. The trollies rattle to and fro, and a man slides, boots first, from a bunker at the other end shining black all over, his hair glistening with tiny particles, literally soaked in coal-dust. He has been in there for half an hour. Steadying himself a minute, he walks to the air-trunk and breathes hard at the pumped-down air, spitting to clear his throat.

The needles of the gauges above the furnaces move slowly round as the heat pours in to the hissing water, and the twin monsters in the enginerooms behind are warming in the haze. All round their huge joints and limbs crawl, ant-like, men with oil-cans, feeling, tapping, oiling, easing, and sweating in the cruel heat, while on the platform by the log-desk is the Engineer of the Watch in shirt-sleeves, humming a little tune and rolling a cigarette. On deck the morning is cold enough, he knows, but there is no need for overcoats down here. Slowly finishing his cigarette, he climbs up to the little platform that runs round the tops of the cylinders to see that the indicators are ready. Here the heat is worst of all. It shimmers off the creature's huge back-bone and up through the grinning bars of the armoured hatches - which remind men that the engine-room is a death-trap in war, cut off from light and air for the safety of the rest - and so away to the light above. When the Victoria went down, those on deck at least saw the worst, but below her men stood silently at their posts by fire and can and lever, facing out with fierce anxiety the death they might not see.

Now the Engineer finishes his tour round the cylinder tops, and comes down again to the starting-platform, where he leans and watches in silence. Presently a marine brings him down a cup of cocoa, and he drinks it contentedly in long gulps with one eye on his gauges. The pressure is slowly rising, for our friends in the stoke-holds do not work in vain. Gradually the great engine-beast is coming into life and strength for its work of the next three days under their plying shovels. The smoke pours from twenty funnels now in solid, steady lines round the Fleet, and the Midshipman of the Watch, ankle-deep in sand and water above, curses softly in the rosy dawn, which, rising over the hills ashore, marks the sleeping-place of his lady of the dance.

Slowly, slowly breaks the day, and the hands are washing decks in the grey light; slowly and surely move the pressure needles round the dials below ; and ever round and round go the careful artificers, watching, feeling, noting. Steadily grows the life in each huge monster, until at last the engines stand warmed through and ready, waiting only for the breath of the roaring steam to start them into being.

At half-past seven the Chief comes down, a big man in every sense, stepping neatly down the spidery steel ladders. He meets the little Engineer at the bottom, and they stroll together round the vast kingdom of rods and links and pipes in earnest conversation for two minutes - after which the great man opens his coat, wipes his hands with a piece of waste cotton, steps back to the starting platform, and seems content.

Presently a sharp whistle calls from the clustered voice-tubes overhead, and immediately an ominous mighty hissing answers in one corner, filling the whole place. Then, before we understand why, with a sudden heave and roar the great beast moves-but only just-turns once round and once back, groans, hisses, and is still. This is the little Engineer of the Watch seeing all correct, cigarette in mouth. The other monster next door - for we have twin screws here - moves as well, and the whirring bells ring up " Ready " to the bridges high above. Then, indeed, he throws away his cigarette-stump, and, walking to the platform, stands ready by the telegraph for orders. Above his head is the row of glittering gauges, and all around are wheels and rods and levers in bunches at his hand. The mist has gone now; the time has come, and the great engine stands out in all its triple strength ready to be played upon like an organ by the little man beneath it.

Verily, if man be but small, his works are sometimes nearly great.

For to ! the gongs behind the telegraph ring out, in answer to the order of the Master-Brain above; the little man on the platform swings a wheel and taps a lever, and with a great rocking heave which shakes the ship from stem to stern the mighty pistons thunder down their strokes in certain, perfect strength, the cranks turn cleanly in their dark pits beneath, the thrust in its gloomy passage home, right aft, takes up the fearsome strain, and the ship moves up to her place in the Fleet as if of her own free will and knowledge.

In five minutes more the Fleet is formed, and we are dancing out to sea in line ahead. The morning mists clear off the little capes and islands at the harbour mouth as we thunder past, the sun rises bright and clear in the blue sky above, and another day of health and vigour opens through the Fleet. Our little world is humming again with wonted life and strength.

Only a certain tired Midshipman at the starboard telegraphs on the fore-bridge looks gloomily at the flying shore, so soon to disappear for good, and, ringing down the quick orders for increased speed below, confides mournfully to the Captain's doggie* that all is over, for his heart is " on the beach" !

*Midshipman aide-de-camp.