In his day, one guy played numerous roles, none more important than the Lanyard. The Monsieur Duchemin, who departed from a British port on the steamer Assyrian for New York ten days after that icy midnight, was in no way to be associated with the hunted animal who snuck through the British lines out of No Man's Land. The Assyrian has been a steadily moving Dobbin of the transatlantic lanes; she has knuckled down to it resolutely and has only buried her nose in the frothing green when absolutely necessary. Lower visibility was a result of sheeting spindrift; two destroyers approximately a mile apart on parallel courses to port and to starboard were frequently very faintly visible, ghostly ships whirling and dipping in the haze. The commander's face lost the frown and developed a vague look of stupefaction. He wavered, a palm trembling over the neatly punctured black blood that was starting to fill up on his forehead. His enormous frame violently shook during a convulsive quake. It was difficult to see Mr. Blensop go about his professional duties without thinking about the heinous injustice that Nature all too frequently inflicts upon her progeny. After Stanistreet, Stone, and the broken, sobbing Blensop left, there was a silence that was nearly as painful for Lanyard.
