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[Illustration: 'That's 'er.' ''Oo?' PAGE 1.]
A STORY OF THE INNER LIFE OF THE ROYAL NAVY
'TAFFRAIL' Author of 'Carry On,' &c., &c.
LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W. W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED EDINBURGH: 339 High Street 1916
Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
This story was written in rather difficult circumstances, and subject to frequent interruption. Indeed, when the first chapters appeared in _Chambers's Journal_ early in 1916 the narrative was barely half-finished. Sometimes I almost despaired of ever completing it, for it can perhaps be understood that writing on board a small ship actually at sea in time of war is impossible for more reasons than one.
The reader is cautioned against accepting the story as an official account of the part played by a certain section of the Navy during the war. Incidents described are true; but, for reasons which must be obvious, it has been necessary to give them fictitious colouring. It also seems desirable to add that all my characters are fictitious, and that each chapter was submitted to the censors at the Press Bureau before publication.
It should be added that a considerable amount of matter is contained in this volume which did not appear in _Chambers's Journal_ when the story appeared in serial form.
More than ever am I deeply sensible of the very real debt which I owe to my wife, both for her help in revising and correcting the proofs, and for her many suggestions for improvements.
'It was 'is fault! I saw 'im stick 'is foot out!' 115
'Gosh! there ain't no bloomin' error abart this 'ere' 152
Raising his voice, he tried to shout for help 203
''Ow do, granfer? Where did yer git that 'at?' 230
The shooting was very accurate, far too accurate to be pleasant 310
The dark hulls of the enemy were hidden in the blinding glare of their searchlights 333
The leading seaman in charge of the party paused, and waved a hand toward a squat gray battleship lying on the other side of one of the basins in Portsmouth Dockyard.
The little expedition of which he was the leader consisted of himself; Martin, the man he had spoken to; and a small hand-cart propelled by another ordinary seaman, breathing heavily. The cart contained a sausage-shaped, khaki-coloured hammock, bound with its seven regulation turns of lashing, and a bulbous brown kit-bag. They were Martin's belongings. He was joining his first seagoing ship.