Once again we are beholden to the current executors of the Knolly estate for letting us publish this, the second package of the great man's journals and memoirs.

Elspeth and Charlotte were deep in an animated and lively conversation in the office area as I emerged from our room, fully dressed and ready to face the remains of the day. From what I could gather, Charlotte wanted go and play in the gymnasium, but Elspeth was suggesting that at the moment this would not be a good idea. She looked up as I approached.

"Knolly, I think you need to go and have words with Bertie urgently. I've never seen him in such a foul mood, and I certainly cannot let him exercise with Charlotte whilst he is like this."

I thought about her use of the word "exercise", but let it pass. Instead, I answered, "He's a bit cross then, is he?"

"I think, dearest, that cross would be somewhat grossly understating the fact. What were you discussing earlier over your breakfast?"

Charlotte made a loud hissing noise to get my attention and clawed at the air with her hands. "Berrrtieee wants to fight! Meee tooooo!"

"You see what I mean?", sighed an exasperated Elspeth as she took Charlotte's exited hands and placed them neatly on her lap.

"Hmmm."

"�..and the language he was using! ... not what one should be using in the presence of young ladies."

"Oh, come now Elspeth. You ran your own regiment in Africa. You of all women should be well used to such cussing and swearing by now!"

"True, but it was all directed at you, I'm afraid."

"Right then, I'll go and see what I can do. He's in the gymnasium still, is he?"

Elspeth raised her eyebrows. "Indeed, were it not for the soundproofing, you would hear the sound of his spleen being vented in the next carriage."

I could do without this; there were more important things to do than calm my friend's angst. I bid my leave and hoped that there was no spleen or any other organs being vented, though there were swords available and also the guns in the armoury. It was in retrospect a foolish slip of the tongue to mention the "s" word, especially when I'd made a specific point to Hobbes only days ago not to mention it. Still, I never said that we would have to venture onto a submarine, oh no. Bertie himself had jumped to this conclusion and this would be the basis of my counter-argument, providing, of course, I was able to get a word in edgeways. Bertie, however, I was sure would counter this by putting forward his own case: that the Royal Navy would not have even been playing with such toys if I had not drafted such a colourful report following our journey to Washington aboard such a vessel.

This is only partially true; it was well written and well received by our lords and masters, the Admiralty, but like so many sound strategic ideas, the idea of sneaking about under the waves was seen by some of the Sea Lords as rather underhand and certainly "not cricket": a fine idea for us cloak-and-dagger types, but not really the Senior Service's style. One comment I did hear put it into a similar context of the Army phasing out the cavalry charge in the future; it was bad enough they had abandoned red coats to fight in. I believe that the fellow who so clearly wanted to hold on to the past has himself passed on, which for the sake of progress can only be a good thing.

However, that was last century, and now Germany was beginning to flex her muscles, based, it would seem, on the fact that "If my cousin has a Navy and colonies so I want them, too". Poor Kaiser Wilhelm, I'm quite sure that much of his sabre rattling was suggested from other quarters, and if we could eliminate the House of Kronenburg or at least have them disgraced, then things might quieten down again. It was such a shame he had got rid of Bismarck, I liked him a lot. Oh yes, he'd used both Bertie and me, too, for his own ends – a wily old soul – but he knew how to play politics, and was well aware that colonies for Germany would be an expensive luxury. I did so like that Punch cartoon, "Dropping the Pilot."

So, it was with the world and his wife almost all having commissioned submarines by 1900, the Admiralty's prejudice against the craft was finally and reluctantly set aside. Alas, we needed to play catch up, and so they went back to my original report and decided to buy the technology in: the engineer John P Holland of the American Electric Boat Company providing the design and know-how for the Barrow shipyard to build the first vessels, and while that was proceeding, the Navy would test a borrowed one in the safety of the Loch, currently known as Holland Number One.

It is, I have found over the years, a useful skill to be able to read documents on superiors' desks even when it all appears to be upside down. Perhaps this should be taught at officer's schools?

I reached the gymnasium and stopped myself by the adjacent 'head'. The sudden noise over and above the wheels below me assaulted my ears: Bertie was giving himself a good workout. I peered round the corner to see him armed with a pair of cutlasses taking on the 'mech' who was similarly armed. With each slash and thrust he would exclaim "Submarines, blasted submarines!", and then mutter loudly to himself as he took a defensive stance. "Knolly's fault! His entire damned fault! Well not again! Not me! Oh no!"

I braced myself against the wall and inched around the corner. He was clearly rather vexed about the whole situation – I could tell this by the way he was attacking the automaton: no style or finesse in his swordsmanship at alI. I took a deep breath and stole another look, trying to ascertain how I could get across the room to at least arm myself, and then he heard me. My foot had struck an empty brandy bottle that was happily rolling across the floor in time with the rocking of the train.

"How...Long...Have...You...Known...About...The...Submarines?" He roared, as he crossed the floor to meet me and cut me off from the weapons store on the other side of the room.

Each word was punctuated by the swish of a cutlass, but rather the words than me. I smiled to myself at this jolly play on the words punctured and punctuated. Bertie obviously took umbrage at me smiling rather than answering his question and continued his approach, but in doing so had forgotten about his mechanical opponent behind him.

"Um... don't you think you should turn him off first?" I pointed gingerly, not wishing to lose a finger on the blades swinging before me.

I ducked as Bertie turned to block his attacker. He looked over his shoulder at me: "You stay there!"

There was no way I was going to do something that idiotic. If Bertie wanted to debate this with steel, then I needed to equip myself in a similar manner. With him distracted by the mechanical man, I ran behind him, using the cover of his untidy hammock, to the sword racks to see what I could use. A single cutlass remained, but there were plenty of Clack-Ow poles of various lengths, as requested. Excellent! I would take a moral stance and fight steel with wood. I chose my weapons with care, but fear I may have taken rather too long, for the sound of mechanical thrashing had come to a halt.

I turned slowly to find Bertie breathing heavily and facing me.

"So, Bertie, feel better after that?"

He shrugged and hefted his cutlasses: "I'm nicely warmed up now. Are you going to answer my question?"

"About the submarines?"

He sliced in my direction which I instinctively blocked using the Sin Corswim method of Clack-Ow.

"Of course about the dashed submarines!" he said through gritted teeth.

I pushed him back. "Only a few days" and caught him a blow on the ribs with my "Prodder" (The Prodder tends to be the longer version of the standard "pole" and is useful to keep one's opponent at arm's length.)

"Look now, Bertie, can't we just talk this through? I don't want to hurt you.

"That's unfortunate... "

He swung at my prodder and I blocked; the jarring sensation shot through my arm. I reeled back and took up the standard defence of the "Dung Beetle" (Not that dissimilar to the well known "Mantis", but slightly less aggressive).

"Bertie... listen to me. I seem to recall that you were all for the idea of submarines before our trip on The Flounder."

He came at me once again. "Yes... that's true. But that was before... we were cooped up in one and your bowl problem... under pressurised conditions."

I twisted away from his thrust, my jacket playing the part of the victim, and caught him in the pockles which instantly brought him to the floor. (The pockles, dear reader, are those areas behind the knee cap and are, as you are well aware, highly sensitive to pressure). In the ancient form this would have been the point where the death blow would have been dealt, but instead, I backed away to let Bertie catch his breath – a mistake on my part, as I suddenly found myself entangled with the now slumbering automaton.

"No one said we would be going on a submarine in any case... It's just interesting that they, too, are using the loch", I said as I struggled to release myself.

Bertie got to his feet and could see I was trapped. "Interesting... Strange bloody coincidence is what I say to that!"

His right cutlass swung towards me, which I blocked all too easily, but his left hand followed through and he used the hand guard as a knuckle duster to my stomach which my earlier breakfast did not enjoy.

It was my turn to hit the floor as I gasped for breath and fought back the bile in my throat.

"Do you feel better after that, old friend?" I muttered.

He grinned "Get up and let me have another couple of hits and we'll see, shall we?"

"Fine, if that's what you want... En garde!"

We went at it, hammer and tongs. This was rough and ready street fighting, as though we had been confined for too long with no release. I should have had the upper hand, but it was surprising how quick he was, considering the brandy he had partaken of, and there was a limit to the amount of parrying I could do. And after all, I didn't want to hurt the fellow.

Bertie quickly forced me into a corner, his twin sabres seeming to have minds of their own, and I felt my prodder snap.

I heard Elspeth cry out, "I have a fan here and I'm not afraid to use it!", which had no effect on the bludgeoning Bertie was giving me.

She yelled once more, "Charlotte, stop them please!"

There was a rush of air, and suddenly where Bertie had been whirling like a dervish was empty space. I looked down to see Bertie, pinned face down on the mat, straddled by Charlie.

Elspeth rushed over to me, fan in hand and pointed at me.

"You were only supposed to talk to him, not get into a fight."

"Er... heated discussion, that's all, nothing more." I took the fan from her and clicked on the safety catch.

Elspeth shook her head. "You can get off him now, Charlotte."

"No no, it's quite comfy down here", Bertie replied, his voice muffled by the rubber mat.

Elspeth gave him a well-aimed kick, which obtained the desired effect of him shutting up.

"I expect neither of you two noticed during your 'heated discussion' that we have been slowing down for some time. We are pulling into Glasgow."

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