A FUEL PROBLEM A few days after his visit to the factory, Lister sat one morning under a tarpaulin they had stretched across the hulk.

The paint on the canvas smelt as if it burned, but the awning gave some shade and one could not front the sun on the open deck.

The sea breeze had not sprung up and dazzling reflections played about the oily surface of the swell.

In one place, where the shadow of the wreck fell, the water was a cool, dull green.
A row of bubbles slowly crossed the belt of shade, stopped and made a frothy patch, and then lengthened out.

A flexible pipe slipped across the edge of the open gangway, and Lister felt the line he held.