Transcriber's note:

 "Bartimeus" is the pseudonym of Captain Lewis Ritchie, R. N. 

A TALL SHIP

On Other Naval Occasions

by

"BARTIMEUS"

Author of "Naval Occasions"

 . . . "All I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, * * * And a laughing yarn from a merry fellow rover, And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. " JOHN MASEFIELD

Cassell and Company, LtdLondon, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

First published September 1915. Reprinted September and October 1915. 

To

H. M. S. 

PREFACE

It is almost superfluous to observe that the following sketches containno attempt at the portrait of an individual. The majority are etchedin with the ink of pure imagination. A few are "composite" sketches ofa large number of originals with whom the Author has been shipmates inthe past and whose friendship he is grateful to remember. 

Of these, some, alas! have finished "the long trick. " To them, at norisk of breaking their quiet sleep--_Ave atque vale_. 

"Crab-Pots, " "The Day, " and "Chummy-Ships" appeared originally in_Blackwood's Magazine_, and are reproduced here by kind permission ofthe Editor. 

CONTENTS

 1. CRAB-POTS 2. THE DRUM 3. A CAPTAIN'S FORENOON 4. THE SEVEN-BELL BOAT 5. THE KING'S PARDON 6. AN OFF-SHORE WIND 7. THE DAY 8. THE MUMMERS 9. CHUMMY-SHIPS 10. THE HIGHER CLAIM

A TALL SHIP

I

CRAB-POTS

1

In moments of crisis the disciplined human mind works as a thingdetached, refusing to be hurried or flustered by outward circumstance. Time and its artificial divisions it does not acknowledge. It isconcerned with preposterous details and with the ludicrous, and it isacutely solicitous of other people's welfare, whilst working at a speedmere electricity could never attain. 

Thus with James Thorogood, Lieutenant, Royal Navy, when he--togetherwith his bath, bedding, clothes, and scanty cabin furniture, revolver, first-aid outfit, and all the things that were his--was precipitatedthrough his cabin door across the aft-deck. The ship heeled violently, and the stunning sound of the explosion died away amid the uproar ofmen's voices along the mess-deck and the tinkle and clatter of brokencrockery in the wardroom pantry. 

"Torpedoed!" said James, and was in his conjecture entirely correct. He emerged from beneath the debris of his possessions, shaken andbruised, and was aware that the aft-deck (that spacious vestibulegiving admittance on either side to officers' cabins, and normallyoccupied by a solitary Marine sentry) was filled with figures rushingpast him towards the hatchway. 

It was half-past seven in the morning. The Morning-watch had beenrelieved and were dressing. The Middle-watch, of which James had beenone, were turning out after a brief three-hours' spell of sleep. Officers from the bathroom, girt in towels, wardroom servants who hadbeen laying the table for breakfast, one or two Warrant-officers in seaboots and monkey jackets--the Watch-below, in short--appeared andvanished from his field of vision like figures on a screen. In nosense of the word, however, did the rush resemble a panic. Theaft-deck had seen greater haste on all sides in a scramble on deck tocheer a troopship passing the cruiser's escort. But the variety ofdress and undress, the expressions of grim anticipation in each man'sface as he stumbled over the uneven deck, set Thorogood's reeling mind, as it were, upon its feet. 

The Surgeon, pyjama clad, a crimson streak running diagonally acrossthe lather on his cheek, suddenly appeared crawling on all-foursthrough the doorway of his shattered cabin. "I always said thosesafety-razors were rotten things, " he observed ruefully. "I've justcarved my initials on my face. And my ankle's broken. Have we beentorpedoed, or what, at all? An' what game is it you're playing underthat bath, James? Are you pretending to be an oyster?"

Thorogood pulled himself together and stood up. "I think one of theirsubmarines must have bagged us. " He nodded across the flat to where, beyond the wrecked debris of three cabins, the cruiser's side gapedopen to a clear sky and a line of splashing waves. Overhead on deckthe twelve-pounders were barking out a series of ear-splittingreports--much as a terrier might yap defiance at a cobra over thestricken body of its master. 

"I think our number's up, old thing. " Thorogood bent and slipped hisarms under the surgeon's body. "Shove your arms round my neck. . . . Steady!--hurt you? Heave! Up we go!" A Midshipman, ascending thehatchway, paused and turned back. Then he ran towards them, spatteringthrough the water that had already invaded the flat. 

"Still!" sang a bugle on deck. There was an instant's lull in thestampede of feet overhead. The voices of the officers calling orderswere silent. The only sounds were the lapping of the waves along theriven hull and the intermittent reports of the quick-firers. Then camethe shrill squeal of the pipes. 

"Fall in!" roared a voice down the hatchway. "Clear lower deck! Everysoul on deck!" The bugle rang out again. 

Thorogood staggered with his burden across the buckled plating of theflat, and reached the hatchway. The Midshipman who had turned backpassed him, his face white and set. "Here!" called the Lieutenant fromthe bottom of the ladder. "This way, my son! Fall in's the order!"For a moment the boy glanced back irresolute across the flat, now ankledeep in water. The electric light had been extinguished, and in thegreenish gloom between decks he looked a small and very forlorn figure. He pointed towards the wreckage of the after-cabin, called somethinginaudible, and, turning, was lost to view aft. 

"That's the 'Pay's' cabin, " said the Doctor between his teeth. "He wasa good friend to that little lad. I suppose the boy's gone to look forhim, and the 'Pay' as dead as a haddock, likely as not. "

Thorogood deposited the Surgeon on the upper deck, fetched a lifebuoy, and rammed it over the injured man's shoulders. "God forgive me fortaking it, " said the latter gratefully, "but my fibula's cracked toblazes, an' I love my wife . . . "

All round them men were working furiously with knives and crowbars, casting off lashings from boats and baulks of timber on the booms, wrenching doors and woodwork from their fastenings--anything capable offloating and supporting a swimmer. The officers were encouraging themen with words and example, steadying them with cheery catch-words oftheir Service, ever with an eye on the forebridge, at the extreme endof which the Captain was standing. 

On the after shelter-deck the Gunner, bare-headed and clad only in ashirt and trousers, was, single-handed, loading and firing atwelve-pounder as fast as he could snap the breech to and lay the gun. His face was distorted with rage, and his black brows met across hisnose in a scowl that at any other time would have suggested acutemelodrama. Half a mile away the shots were striking the water withlittle pillars of white spray. 

The figure on the forebridge made a gesture with his arm. "Fall in!"shouted the Commander. "Fall in, facing outboard, and strip! Stand byto swim for it!" Seven hundred men--bluejackets, stokers, andmarines--hurriedly formed up and began to divest themselves of theirclothes. They were drawn up regardless of class or rating, and a burlyMarine Artilleryman, wriggling out of his cholera belt, laughed in theblackened face of a stoker fresh from the furnace door. 

"Cheer up, mate!" he said encouragingly. "You'll soon 'ave a chance towash your bloomin' face!"

The ship gave a sudden lurch, settled deeper in the water, and began toheel slowly over. The Captain, clinging to the bridge rail to maintainhis balance, raised the megaphone to his mouth:

"Carry on!" he shouted. "Every man for himself!"--he lowered themegaphone and added between his teeth--"and God for us all!"

The ship was lying over at an angle of sixty degrees, and the men wereclustered along the bulwarks and nettings as if loath to leave theirstricken home even at the eleventh hour. A muscular Leading Seaman wasthe first to go--a nude, pink figure, wading reluctantly down thesloping side of the cruiser, for all the world like a child paddling. He stopped when waist deep and looked back. "'Ere!" he shouted, "'owfar is it to Yarmouth? No more'n a 'undred an' fifty miles, is it? Igotter aunt livin' there. . . . "

Then came the rush, together with a roar of voices, shouts and cheers, cries for help, valiant, quickly stifled snatches of "Tipperary, " and, over all, the hiss of escaping steam. 

"She wouldn't be 'arf pleased to see yer, Nobby!" shouted a voice abovethe hubbub. "Not 'arf she wouldn't! Nah then, 'oo's for compulsorybathin'. . . . Gawd! ain't it cold! . . . "

 * * * * *

How he found himself in the water, Thorogood had no very clearrecollection; but by instinct he struck out through the welter ofgasping, bobbing heads till he was clear of the clutching menace of thedrowning. The Commander, clad simply in his wrist-watch and uniformcap, was standing on the balsa raft, with scores of men hanging to itssupport. "Get away from the ship!" he was bawling at the full strengthof his lungs. "Get clear before she goes----!"

The stern of the cruiser rose high in the air, and she dived withsickening suddenness into the grey vortex of waters. Pitiful cries forhelp sounded on all sides. Two cutters and a few hastily constructedrafts were piled with survivors; others swam to and fro, looking forfloating debris, or floated, reserving their strength. 

The cries and shouts grew fewer. 

Thorogood had long parted with his support--the broken loom of anoar--and was floating on his back, when he found himself in closeproximity to two figures clinging to an empty breaker. One herecognised as a Midshipman, the other was a bearded Chief Stoker. Theboy's teeth were chattering and his face was blue with cold. 

"W-w-what were you g-g-g-oing to have for b-b-b-breakfast in yourm-m-mess?" he was asking his companion in misfortune. 

Hang it all, a fellow of fifteen had to show somehow he wasn't afraidof dying. 

"Kippers, " replied the Chief Stoker, recognising his part and playingup to it manfully. "I'm partial to a kipper, meself--an' fat'am. . . . "

The Midshipman caught sight of Thorogood, and raised an arm ingreeting. As he did so a sudden spasm of cramp twisted his face like amask. He relaxed his grasp of the breaker and sank instantly. 

The two men reappeared half a minute later empty handed, and clung tothe barrel exhausted. 

"It's all chalked up somewhere, I suppose, " spluttered James, gaspingfor his breath. 

"Child murder, sir, I reckon that is, " was the tense reply. "That's ontheir slop ticket all right. . . . 'Kippers, ' I sez, skylarkin'like . . . An' 'e sinks like a stone. . . . "

Among the wavetops six hundred yards away a slender, upright objectturned in a wide circle and moved slowly northward. To the south acluster of smoke spirals appeared above the horizon, growing graduallymore distinct. The party in one of the cutters raised a wavering cheer. 

"Cheer up for Chatham!" shouted a clear voice across the grey waste ofwater. "Here come the destroyers! . . . Stick it, my hearties!"

 * * * * *

After a month's leave James consulted a specialist. He was a very wiseman, and his jerky discourse concerned shocked nerve-centres and reflexactions. "That's all right, " interrupted the thoroughly startled James(sometime wing three-quarter for the United Services XV. ), "but whatdefeats me is not being able to cross a London street without 'comingover all of a tremble'! An' when I try to light a cigarette"--heextended an unsteady hand--"look! . . . I'm as fit as a fiddle, really. Only the Medical Department won't pass me for service afloat. An' I want to get back, d'you see? There's a super-Dreadnoughtcommissioning soon----"

The specialist wrote cabalistic signs on a piece of paper. "Bracingclimate--East Coast for preference. . . . Plenty of exercise. Walk. Fresh air. Early hours. Come and see me again in a fortnight, and getthis made up. That's all right"--he waved aside James's profferedguineas. "Don't accept fees from naval or military. . . . Least wecan do is to mend you quickly. 'Morning. . . . "

James descended the staircase, and passed a tall, lean figure in soiledkhaki ascending, whom the public (together with his wife and family)had every reason to suppose was at that moment in the neighbourhood ofYpres. 

"If it weren't for those fellows I couldn't be here, " was his greetingto the specialist. He jerked his grey, close-cropped head towards thedoor through which Thorogood had just passed. 

2

A ramshackle covered cart laden with an assortment of tinware hadstopped on the outskirts of the village. The owner, a bent scarecrowof a fellow, was effecting repairs to his nag's harness with a piece ofstring. Evening was setting in, and the south-east wind swept a greyhaze across the coast road and sombre marshes. The tinker completedfirst-aid to the harness, and stood at the front of the cart to lighthis lamps. The first match blew out, and he came closer to the body ofthe vehicle for shelter from the wind. 

At that moment a pedestrian passed, humming a little tune to himself, striding along through the November murk with swinging gait. It mayhave been that his voice, coming suddenly within range of the mare'sears, conveyed a sound of encouragement. Perhaps the lights of thevillage, twinkling out one by one along the street, suggested stablesand a nosebag. Anyhow, the tinker's nag threw her weight suddenly intothe collar, the wheel of the cart passed over the tinker's toe, and thetinker uttered a sudden exclamation. 

In the circumstances it was a pardonable enough ebullition of feelingand ought not to have caused the passing pedestrian to spin round onhis heel, astonishment on every line of his face. The next moment, however, he recovered himself. "Did you call out to me?" he shouted. 

The tinker was nursing his toe, apparently unconscious of having givenanyone more food for thought than usual. "No, " he replied gruffly. "I'urt myself. "

The passer-by turned and pursued his way to the village. The tinkerlit his lamps and followed. He was a retiring sort of tinker, andemployed no flamboyant methods to advertise his wares. He jingledthrough the village without attracting any customers--or apparentlydesiring to attract any--and followed the sandy coast road for somemiles. 

At length he pulled up, and from his seat on the off-shaft satmotionless for a minute, listening. The horse, as if realising thatits dreams of a warm stable were dreams indeed, hung its headdejectedly, and in the faint gleam, of the lamp its breath rose in thinvapour. The man descended from his perch on the shaft and, going tohis nag's head, turned the cart off the road. 

For some minutes the man and horse stumbled through the darkness; thecart jolted, and the tin merchandise rattled dolefully. The tinker, true to the traditions of his calling, swore again. Then he found whathe had been looking for, an uneven track that wound among thesand-dunes towards the shore. The murmur of the sea became suddenlyloud and distinct. 

With a jerk the horse and cart came to a standstill. In a leisurelyfashion the tinker unharnessed his mare, tied a nosebag on her, andtethered her to the tail of the cart. In the same deliberate manner herummaged about among his wares till he produced a bundle of sticks andsome pieces of turf. With these under his arm, he scrambled off acrossthe sand-hills to the sea. 

The incoming tide sobbed and gurgled along miniature headlands of rockthat stretched out on either side of a little bay. The sand-hillsstraggled down almost to high-water mark, where the winter storms hadpiled a barrier of kelp and debris. At one place a rough track down tothe shingle had been worn in the sand by the feet of fishermen usingthe cove in fine weather during the summer. 

The tinker selected a site for his fire in a hollow that opened to thesea. He built a hearth with flat stones, fetched a kettle from thecart, kindled the fire, and busied himself with preparations for hisevening meal. This concluded, he laid a fresh turf of peat upon theembers, banked the sand up all round till the faint glow was invisiblea few yards distant, and lit a pipe. 

The night wore on. Every now and again the man rose, climbed asand-hill, and stood listening, returning each time to his vigil by thefire. At length he leaned forward and held the face of his watch nearthe fire-glow. Apparently the time had come for action of some sort, for he rose and made off into the darkness. When he reappeared hecarried a tin pannikin in his hand, and stood motionless by the fire, staring out to sea. 

Ten minutes he waited; then, suddenly, he made an inaudibleobservation. A light appeared out of the darkness beyond the headland, winked twice, and vanished. The tinker approached his fire and swilledsomething from his pannikin on to the glowing embers. A flame shot upabout three feet, and died down, flickering. The tin containedparaffin, and three times the tinker repeated the strange rite. Thenhe sat down and waited. 

A quarter of an hour passed before something grated on the shingle ofthe beach, scarcely perceptible above the lap of the waves. The tinkerrose to his feet, shovelled the sand over the embers of his fire, anddescended the little path to the beach. The night was inky dark, andfor a moment he paused irresolute. Then a dark form appeared againstthe faintly luminous foam, wading knee deep and dragging the bows of asmall skiff towards the shore. The tinker gave a low whistle, and thewader paused. 

"_Fritz!_" he said guardedly. 

"_Ja! Hier!_" replied the tinker, advancing. 

"_Gott sei dank!_" said the other. He left the boat and waded ashore. The two men shook hands. "Where's the cart?" asked the low voice inGerman. 

"Among the sand-hills. You will want assistance. Have you more thanone with you in the boat?"

"Yes. " The new-comer turned and gave a brusque order. Another figurewaded ashore and joined the two men, a tall, bearded fellow in duffeloveralls. As his feet reached the sand he spat ostentatiously. Thetinker led the way to the cart. 

"It is dark, " said the first man from the sea. "How many cans have yougot?"

"Forty-eight. I could get no more without exciting suspicion. Theyhave requisitioned one of my cars as it is. "

The other gave a low laugh. "What irony! Well, that will last tillFriday. But you must try and get more then. I will be here at thesame time; no, the tide will not suit--at 8 a. M. We can come insidethen. Did you remember the cigarettes?"

"Yes. " The tinker climbed into the cart and handed a petrol tin downto the speaker. "_Ein!_" he said. "Count them, " and lifted outanother. "_Zwei!_" The third man, who had not hitherto spoken, received them with a grunt, and set off down to the boat with hisburden. 

Eight times the trio made the journey to and from the beach. Threetimes they waited while the tiny collapsible boat ferried its cargo outto where, in the darkness, a long, black shadow lay, with the waterlapping round it, like a partly submerged whale. The last time thetinker remained alone on the beach. 

He stood awhile staring out into the darkness, and at length turned toretrace his steps. As he reached the shelter of the sand-dunes a tallshadow rose out of the ground at his feet, and the next instant he waswrithing on his face in the grip of an exceedingly effectiveneck-and-arm lock. 

"If you try to kick, my pippin, " said the excited voice of JamesThorogood, "I shall simply break your arm--so!"

The face in the sand emitted a muffled squark. 

"Keep still, then. "

The two men breathed heavily for a minute. 

"Don't swear, either. That's what got you into this trouble, thatdeplorable habit of swearing aloud in German. But I will say, for atinker, you put a very neat West Country whipping on that bit of brokenharness. I've been admiring it. Didn't know they taught you that inthe German navy--_don't_ wriggle. "

3

James Thorogood, retaining a firm hold on his companion's arm, bentdown and gathered a handful of loose earth from a flower-bed at hisfeet. The moonlight, shining fitfully through flying clouds, illuminedthe face of the old house and the two road-stained figures standingunder its walls. It was a lonely, rambling building, partly shelteredfrom the prevailing wind by a clump of poplars, and looking out down anavenue bordered by untidy rhododendrons. 

"Won't Uncle Bill be pleased!" said James, and flung his handful ofearth with relish against one of the window-panes on the first floor. He and his captive waited in silence for some minutes; then he repeatedthe assault. Soon a light wavered behind the curtains, the sashlifted, and a head and shoulders appeared. 

"Hallo!" said a man's voice. 

"Uncle Bill!" called James. There was a moment's silence. 

"Well?" said the voice again, patiently. 

"Uncle Bill! It's me--Jim. Will you come down and open the door? Anddon't wake Janet, whatever you do. " Janet was the housekeeper, stonedeaf these fifteen years. 

The head and shoulders disappeared. Again the light flickered, grewdim, and vanished. "This way, " said James, and led his companion roundan angle of the house into the shadow of the square Georgian porch. The bolts were being withdrawn as they reached the steps, and a tall, grey-haired man in a dressing-gown opened the door. He held a candleabove his head and surveyed the wayfarers through a rimless monocle. 

"Didn't expect you till to-morrow, " was his laconic greeting. "Broughta friend?"

"He's not a friend exactly, " said James, pushing his companion inthrough the door, and examining him curiously by the light of thecandle. "But I'll tell you all about him later on. His name's Fritz. D'you mind if I lock him in the cellar?"

"Do, " replied Uncle Bill dryly. He produced a bunch of keys from thepocket of his dressing-gown. "It's the thin brass key. There's somequite decent brandy in the farthest bin on the right-hand side, ifyou're thinking of making a night of it down there. Take the candle;I'm going back to bed. "

"Don't go to bed, " called James from the head of the stairs. "I wantto have a yarn with you in a minute. Light the gas in the dining-room. "

Five minutes later he reappeared carrying a tray with cold beef, bread, and a jug of beer upon it. Uncle Bill stood in front of the dead ashesof his hearth considering his nephew through his eyeglass. "I hope youmade--er--Fritz comfortable? You look as if you had been doing aforced march. Nerves better?"

James set down his empty glass with a sigh and wiped his mouth. "Ascomfortable as he deserves to be. He's a spy, Uncle Bill. I caughthim supplying petrol to a German submarine. "

"Really?" said Uncle Bill, without enthusiasm. "That brandy cost me180s. A dozen. Wouldn't he be better in a police station? Have youinformed the Admiralty?"

"I venerate the police, " replied James flippantly, "and the Admiraltyare as a father and mother to me; but I want to keep this absolutelyquiet for a few days--anyhow, till after Friday. I couldn't turn Fritzover to a policeman without attracting a certain amount of attention. Anyhow, it would leak out if I did. I've walked eighteen miles alreadysince midnight, and it's another fifty-nine to the Admiralty from here. Besides, unless I disguise Fritz as a performing bear, people wouldwant to know why I was leading him about on a rope's end----"

"Start at the beginning, " interrupted Uncle Bill wearily, "and explain, avoiding all unnecessary detail. "

So James, between mouthfuls, gave a brief résumé of the night'sadventure, while Sir William Thorogood, Professor of Chemistry andAdviser to the Admiralty on Submarine Explosives, stood and shivered onthe hearthrug. 

"And it just shows, " concluded his nephew, "what a three-hours' swim inthe North Sea does for a chap's morals. " He eyed his Uncle Billsolemnly. "I even chucked the fellow's seamanship in his teeth!"

Sir William polished his eyeglass with a silk handkerchief and replacedit with care. 

"_Did_ you!" he said. 

4

A squat tub of a boat, her stern piled high with wicker crab-pots, cameround the northern headland and entered the little bay. The elderlyfisherman who was rowing rested on his oars and sat contemplating thecrab-pots in the stem. A younger man, clad in a jersey and sea boots, was busy coiling down something in the bows. "How about this spot, " hesaid presently, looking up over his shoulder, "for the first one?" Therower fumbled about inside his tattered jacket, produced something thatglistened in the sunlight, and screwed it into his eye. 

"Uncle Bill!" protested the younger fisherman, "do unship that thing. If there _is_ anyone watching us, it will give the whole show away. "

Sir William Thorogood surveyed the harbour with an expressionlesscountenance. "I consider that having donned these unsavourygarments--did Janet bake them thoroughly, by the way?--I have alreadyforfeited my self-respect quite sufficiently. How much of the circuithave you got off the drum?"

"Six fathoms. "

"That's enough for the first, then. " The speaker rose, lifted acrab-pot with an effort, and tipped it over the side of the boat. Thecable whizzed out over the gunwale for a few seconds and stopped. Uncle Bill resumed paddling for a little distance, and repeated themanoeuvre eight times in a semi-circle round the inside of the bay, across the entrance. "That's enough, " he observed at length, as thelast crab-pot sank with a splash. "Don't want to break all theirwindows ashore. These will do all they're intended to. " He propelledthe boat towards the shore, while James paid out the weighted cable. The bows of the boat grated on the shingle, and the elder man climbedout. "Hand me the battery and the firing key--in that box under thethwart there. Now bring the end of the cable along. "

As they toiled up the shifting flank of a sand-dune, James indicated acharred spot in the sand. "That's where he showed the flare, UncleBill. "

Uncle Bill nodded disinterestedly. Side by side they topped the tuftedcrest of the dune and vanished among the sand-hills. 

 * * * * *

Somewhere across the marshes a church clock was striking midnight whena big covered car pulled up at the roadside in the spot where, a fewnights before, the tinker's cart had turned off among the sand-hills. The driver switched the engine off and extinguished the lights. Twomen emerged from the body of the car; one, a short, thick-set figuremuffled in a Naval overcoat, stamped up and down to restore hiscirculation. "Is this the place?" he asked. 

"Part of it, " replied the voice of Uncle Bill from the driving seat. "My nephew will show you the rest. I shall stay here, if Jim doesn'tmind handing me the Thermos flask and my cigar-case--thanks. "

James walked round the rear of the car and began groping about in thedry ditch at the roadside. 

"Don't say you can't find it, Jim, " said Sir William. He bent forwardto light his cigar, and the flare of the match shone on his dressshirt-front and immaculate white tie. He refastened his motoring coat, and leaned back puffing serenely. 

"Got it!" said a voice from the ditch, and James reappeared, carrying asmall box and trailing something behind him. He held it out to theshort man with gold oak leaves round his cap-peak. His hand trembledslightly. 

"Here's the firing key, sir!"

"Oh, thanks. Let's put it in the sternsheets of the car till I comeback. I'd like to have a look at the spot. "

"You'll get your boots full of sand, " said Uncle Bill's voice under thehood. 

James lifted a small sack and an oil-can out of the motor, and the twofigures vanished side by side into the night. 

Half an hour later the elder man reappeared. "He's going to blow awhistle, " he observed, and climbed into the body of the car, where SirWilliam was now sitting under a pile of rugs. He made room for thenew-comer. 

"Have some rug . . . And here's the foot-warmer. . . . I see. Andthen you--er--do the rest? The box is on the seat beside you. "

The other settled down into his seat and tucked the rug round himself. "Thanks, " was the grim reply. "Yes, I'll do the rest!" He lit a pipe, and smoked in silence, as if following a train of thought. "My boywould have been sixteen to-morrow. . . . "

"Ah!" said Uncle Bill. 

An hour passed. The Naval man refilled and lit another pipe. By thelight of the match he examined his watch. "I suppose you tested thecontacts?" he asked at length in a low voice. 

"Yes, " was the reply, and they lapsed into silence again. The othershifted his position slightly and raised his head, staring into thedarkness beyond the road whence came the faint, continuous murmur ofthe sea. 

Seaward a faint gleam of light threw into relief for an instant thedark outline of a sand-dune, and sank into obscurity again. 

Uncle Bill's eyeglass dropped against the buttons of his coat with atinkle. The grim, silent man beside him lifted something on to hisknees, and there was a faint click like the safety-catch of a gun beingreleased. 

A frog in the ditch near by set up a low, meditative croaking. UncleBill raised his head abruptly. Their straining ears caught the soundof someone running, stumbling along the uneven track that wound in fromthe shore. A whistle cut the stillness like a knife. 

There was a hoarse rumble seaward that broke into a deafening roar, andwas succeeded by a sound like the bursting of a dam. The car rockedwith the concussion, and the fragments of the shattered wind-screentinkled down over the bonnet and footboard. 

Then utter, absolute silence. 

II

THE DRUM

1

Ole Jarge put down the baler and wiped the perspiration from hisforehead. A few fish scales transferred themselves from the back ofhis oakum-coloured hand to his venerable brow. 

"'Tain't no use, " he murmured. "'Er's nigh twenty year' ole--come nex'month. Tar ain't no use neither. 'Tis new strakes 'ers wantin'. " Hethumbed the seams of the old boat that lay on the shingle, with theoutgoing tide still lapping round her stern. "An' new strakes do costtarrible lot. " He sat puffing his clay pipe, and transferred his gazefrom the bottom of the boat to the whitewashed cottages huddled underthe lee of the cliffs. A tall figure was moving about the nets thatfestooned the low wall in front of the cottages. 

Ole Jarge removed his pipe from his mouth, substituted two fingers ofhis right hand, and gave a long, shrill whistle. It was adisconcerting performance. For one thing, you associated the trickwith irrepressible boyhood, and, for another, the old man squintedslightly as he did it. As a matter of fact, he had learned it on theDogger Bank fifty years before; fog-bound in a dory, it was a usefulaccomplishment. 

Young Jarge straightened up, raised one hand in acknowledgment of thesummons, and came crunching slowly across the shingle towards the boat. Ole Jarge sat smoking in philosophical silence till his son was besidehim. Then he removed his pipe and spat over the listed gunwale. 

"'Er's daid, " he observed laconically. 

Young Jarge bent stiffly and tapped the seams, inside and out, much asa veterinary surgeon runs his hand over a horse's legs. 

"Ya-a-is, " he confirmed, and sat down on the stem of the old boat. "'Er's very nigh's ole 's what us be, " he added, after a pause, andbegan shredding some tobacco into the palm of his hand. 

Ole Jarge nodded. Then he lifted his head quickly. "'Er's bound tolast 'nother year. " For the first time there was concern in his voice. Adversity does not grip the mind of the Cornish fisherfolk suddenly. It filters slowly through the chinks of the armour God has given them. Cornish men (and surely Cornish maids) were kind to the survivors ofthe wrecked Armada. It may be that they, in their turn, bequeathed astrain of Southern fatalism to many of their benefactors. 

"'Er's bound to, " repeated Ole Jarge. He got ponderously out of theboat and removed a tattered sou'wester to scratch his head with histhumbnail--another trick that had survived the adventurous days of theDogger Bank. 

The unfamiliar note of anxiety in his father's voice stirred YoungJarge. He rose to his feet with perplexity in his dark eyes, mechanically pulling up the bleached leather thigh-boots he wore afloatand ashore, "rainy-come-fine. "

Inspiration had come, as it does to men of the West once the need isrealised to the full. 

"Du 'ee mind that there li'l' ole copper boiler--what come out o'granfer's house when 'er blawed down--back tu '98?" asked Young Jargeslowly. 

Ole Jarge nodded. 

"S'pose us was to hammer 'n out flat like an' nail un down to bottom, 'long wi' oakum an' drop o' white lead--what du 'ee say?"

Ole Jarge silently measured the area of the sprunk strakes with thestumpy thumb and little finger of an outstretched hand. Then hepuckered his forehead and stared out to sea, apparently making mentalcalculations connected with the "li'l' ole copper boiler. "

"Ya-a-ais. " He replaced the piece of perished tarpaulin that had oncebeen a sou'-wester on his head, and set off slowly across the shingletowards the village. Young Jarge followed, staring at his boots as hewalked. 

"Us 'll hammer 'n out after tea, " said Ole Jarge over his shoulder. His great, great, very great grandfather would have said "_Mañana!_"

 * * * * *

The setting sun had tipped the dancing wavelets with fire and wasglowing red in each pool left by the receding tide when Ole Jargeemerged from his cottage door. In one hand he carried a hammer, and inthe other a tin of white lead. Young Jarge joined him with a small, square copper boiler in his arms. 

"Where'll us put un tu, feyther?"

Ole Jarge set off across the beach in the direction of the boat. "Bring un along!" he commanded in a manner dimly suggestive of a lordhigh executioner. 

Young Jarge followed, and dumped his burden down alongside the boat. 

"Now!" said Ole Jarge grimly. He spat on his hands and prepared toenjoy himself. Bang! bang! bang-a-bang! bang! went the hammer. YoungJarge sat down on the gunwale of the boat and contemplated his parent'sexertions. 

"It du put Oi in mind of a drum, " he said appreciatively. 

2

"Now we can talk!" Margaret settled her back comfortably against aridge of turf and closed her eyes for a moment. 

"Isn't it heavenly up here? The wind smells of seaweed, and there mustbe some shrub or flower----" She opened her eyes and looked along thecliffs, "There's something smelling divinely. Wild broom, is it?"

Her gaze travelled along the succession of ragged headlands andcrescents of sand formed by each little bay of the indented coast. Thecoastguard track, a brown thread winding adventurously among the clumpsof gorse at the very edge of the cliffs, drew her eyes farther andfarther to the west. In the far distance the track dipped sharply overa headland where the whitewashed coastguard station stood, and was lostto view. She turned and smiled at her companion. "Now we can talk, "she repeated. 

Torps, sitting beside her, met her eyes with his grave, gentle smile. "I'm so glad to see you again, " he said, "that I can't think ofanything else to say. It was nice of you to write and tell me you werehere. "

As if by common consent, they had discussed nothing but generalitiesduring the half-hour's walk that brought them to this sheltered hollowin the cliffs. The woman was, of the two, the more reluctant to bridgethe years that lay between to-day and their last meeting. Yet, womanlike, it was she that spoke first. 

"I knew your ship was quite close. I wanted to see you again, Trevor, after all these years. Tell me about yourself. Your letters--yes, Iknow; but you never talked much about yourself in your letters. "

He shook his head quietly. "No, you tell first. "

"There isn't much to tell. " She interlaced her fingers round herupdrawn knees. Her grey eyes were turned to the sea, and Torps watchedher profile against the sky wistfully, studying the pure brow, thethreads of silver appearing here and there in her soft brown hair, thestrong, almost boyish lines of mouth and chin. _En profile_, thus, shelooked very like a handsome boy. 

"I've been teaching at one of those training institutes for girls onthe East Coast. The principal, Miss Dacre is her name"--Margaretpaused as if expecting some comment from her companion: nonecame--"Pauline Dacre; she was at school with mother: they were greatfriends; and when mother died she offered me a home. . . . I had alittle money--enough to go through a course of training. I learnedthings----"

"What sort of things?"

"Oh, cooking and laundry, and hygiene--domestic science it's called. "Torps nodded. "And then, when I knew enough to teach others, I wentto--to this place; I've been there ever since. And that's all. Nowit's your turn. "

Torps studied the traces of overwork and strain which showed in thefaintly accentuated cheekbones and which painted little tired shadowsabout her eyelids. 

"No, it's not all. Why have you come down here?"

"I--I----" She coloured as if accused. "I got a little run down . . . That was all. But I've saved some money; I can afford a rest. I'mwhat is called 'an independent gentlewoman of leisure' for a while. "She laughed, a gay little laugh. 

"Do you mean you are going back there again?"

She looked at him with frank surprise. "Of course I am, silly!"

"Don't go back . . . Not to that life again. How can you? Shut up ina sort of convent. . . . You can't be a school-marm all your life; youwere meant for other things. . . . I suppose you have to sleep on ahard bed, and get up in the dark when a bell rings. There aren't anycarpets, and they don't give you enough to eat, as likely as not. Margaret, why should you? It's the sort of work anyone can do-teachingkids to mangle. "

"But . . . What do you think I am going to do with the remainder of mydays--crochet? embroider slippers for the curate? Trevor, you wouldn'tlike me to come to that in my old age, would you?" She spoke withgentle banter, as if to fend off something she feared. Had Torps knownit, she was fencing for the happiness of them both. 

He shook his head gravely. 

"I hoped--because you had written to me--that you weren't goingback. . . . " His thin, strong hand closed over hers, resting on theturf between them. He bent his head as if considering their fingers. "Margaret, dear----"

"Ah, Trevor, don't--please don't. . . . Not again. I thought all thatwas dead and buried years ago. And do you really think"--she smiled alittle sadly--"if I--if things were different--that I should havewritten to ask you to meet me to-day? Have you learned so little ofwomen in all these years?" There was something besides sadness in hereyes now: a wistful, half-maternal tenderness. He raised his head. 

"I've learned nothing about women, Margaret, but what I learned fromyou. "

She gently withdrew her hand. "Trevor, we're not children any longer. We're older and wiser. We----"

"We're older--yes. But I don't see what that has to do with it, exceptthat my need is greater. . . . I'm a little lonelier. There's neverbeen anyone but you. I've never looked across the road at a woman inmy life--except you. I know we're not children, and for that reason weought to know our own minds. Do you know yours, Margaret?"

Margaret bowed her head, collecting her thoughts and setting them inorder, before she answered:

"It isn't easy to say what I have to say. You must bepatient--generous, as you can be, Trevor, of all the men I know. " Shehesitated and coloured again a little. "You say you want me. If therewere no one else who I thought had a greater claim, you should--no, hush! listen, dear--I would give you--what you want . . . Gladly--oh, gladly! But the children need me--my influence. . . . Miss Dacre saidit is doing the highest service one could for the Empire . . . Theirsis the higher claim. Can you understand? Oh, can you?"

Torps made no reply, staring out to sea with sombre eyes. 

Gaining confidence with his silence, she continued the shy unfolding ofher ideals. "Nothing is too good for boys; no training is high enough, because they are to be the builders and upholders of our Empire. Don'tyou think that little girls, who are destined some day to be the matesof these boys, should be prepared in a way that will make them worthyof their share of the inheritance? They have to be taught ideals ofhonour and courage and intelligent patriotism, so that they can helpand encourage their men in years to come. They must learn to cook andsew, learn the laws of Nature and hygiene, so that they can make thehome not 'an habitation enforced'--as it is for so many women--but aplace where they may with all honour bring into the world other littlegirls and boys. . . . " She drew her breath quickly. "Ah, that is nota thing anyone can do, teaching all that! It must be someone who givesall--and who gives herself gladly . . . As I have. "

Torps turned his head as if to speak, but checked himself. 

"Don't think I am setting myself upon a pedestal. Don't think my heartis too anaemic to--to care for you, and that I am trying to sheltermyself behind talk of a life's mission. Oh!" she cried, "be generous. Don't try to make it harder. "

She leaned towards him a little as he sat with lowered eyes. "This isa time of grave anxiety, isn't it?" she continued gently, as ifexplaining something to an impatient child. "You naval men ought toknow. There is talk of war everywhere--of war with Germany. They saywe are on the brink of it to-day. " Torps nodded. "Supposing it camenow . . . And you were recalled. How do they recall you? Sound abugle--beat a drum?"

Torps smiled faintly. "Something of the sort--no, not a drum; a bugle, perhaps. "

"Well, we'll suppose it is a drum. One somehow associates it with warand alarms. Would you hesitate to obey?" Torps refrained from theobvious answer and plucked a grass-stem to put between his teeth. "Youwould obey, wouldn't you, because it is your duty--however much you'dlike to sit here with me? Will you try to realise that I shall be onlyanswering the drum, too, when--I go back. "

The breeze that strayed about the floor of the Channel fanned theirfaces and set the bright sea-poppies nodding all along the edge of thecliffs. The sun was low in the west, and a snake-like flotilla ofdestroyers crept out across the quiet sea from the harbour hidden by afold in the hills. Torps watched them with absent eyes, and there wasa long silence. The wind had loosened a strand of his companion'shair, and she was busy replacing it with deft fingers. 

"Margaret, " he replied at last, "you said just now that I understoodvery little about women. I think you are right. Perhaps if Iunderstood more I might know how to muffle the drum so that youwouldn't hear it. I might have learned to pipe a tune that would makeyou not want to hear it. . . . I don't know. . . . But I accept allyou say--although deep down in my heart I know you are wrong. Therewill come a day when you, too, will know you are wrong. I shall comeback then. And till then, since I must"--he smiled in a whimsical, sadway that somehow relaxed the tension--"I lend you to the children. "

She returned his smile quite naturally, with relief in her eyes. "DearTrevor, yes . . . Because they need me so. . . . Believe me, I am notwrong: and we keep our friendship still, sweet and sane----" She brokeoff suddenly and raised a slim forefinger, holding her head sideways tolisten, the way women and birds and children seem to hear better. "Hark! Did you hear? How odd! Listen, Trevor!"

Torps brought himself back with an effort. "Hear what?"

"Listen!"

He listened. 

"I can hear the waves along the shingle. "

"No, no. . . . There--now!"

"Oh! . . . Yes, I can hear. . . . It sounds like a drum. "

"Trevor, it _is_ a drum, somewhere out at sea! How odd when we werejust talking about drums--hush! Oh, do listen. . . . "

The sound, borne to them on the light wind, seemed to grow nearer; thenit waned till they could scarcely catch the beats. Anon it swelledlouder: the unmistakable "Dub! dub! rub-a-dub! dub! . . . Dub! dub!dub!" of a far-off drum. 

Margaret shook his sleeve. "Of course it's a drum. It can't beanything else, can it?"

"It's Drake's Drum!" he replied, with mock solemnity. "There's alegend in the West Country, you know----"

"I know!" She nodded, bright eyed with interest, and rose to akneeling position to gaze beneath her palms out towards the west. Thesun had set, and a thin grey haze slowly veiled the horizon. Alreadythe warm afterglow was dying out of the sky. 

"He has 'quit the Port of Heaven, '" she quoted half-seriously, playingwith superstition as only women can, "and he's 'drumming up theChannel'! They say it foretells war . . . That noise. . . . " Margaretgave a little shiver and rose to her graceful height, extending bothher ringless hands to him. "It's getting chilly--come!"

Torps rose to his feet, too, and for a moment faced her, with hisgrave, patient eyes on hers. For the first time she noticed that hishair was going grey about the temples, and, had he known it, Margaretcame very near to wavering in that moment. Perhaps he did realise, andwith quick, characteristic generosity helped her. 

"I think I understand, " he said, "something of their need--the need ofthe children for such as you. It--it----" He turned abruptly towardsthe sea. The noise that resembled a distant drum had ceased, and therewas only the faint surge of the waves on the beaches far below. 

It was the only sound in all the land and sea. 

 * * * * *

In the whitewashed coastguard station a mile away the bearded occupanton duty was finishing his tea. The skeleton of a herring lay on theside of his plate, the centre of which the boatman was scouring with apiece of bread (preparatory to occupying it with damson jam), when thetelephone bell rang. A man of economical habits, he put the bread inhis mouth, and, rising from the table, picked up the receiver. 

"_. . . Portree Signal Station--Yes. _"

"_. . . 'Oo? Yes. _"

He stood motionless with the receiver to his ear, his jaws movingmechanically about the last of the piece of bread. Outside the littleroom the wind thrummed in the halliards of the signal-mast. The clockover the desk ticked out the deliberate seconds. A cat, curled up bythe window, rose, stretching itself, and yawned. 

"_. . . Prepare to mobilise. All officers and men are recalled fromleave. Detailed orders will follow. Right. Good-bye. _"

He replaced the receiver and rang off. Then, still masticating, heexecuted a species of solemn war-dance in the middle of the floor. 

"Crikey!" he said aloud. "That means war, that do! Bloody war!"

He snatched up a telescope and ran outside, still talking aloud tohimself after the manner of men who live much alone. "I see a blokean' 'is young woman along there this afternoon. I'd ha' said he was anaval orficer if anyone was to ask me. " He scanned the hills throughhis glass for a moment, and then set off along the track that skirtedthe edge of the cliffs. 

Margaret saw him first, a broad, blue-clad figure, threading his wayamong the furze bushes. "And you won't be unhappy, will you, Trevor?"she was saying. "You will understand, you----" She broke off to watchthe coastguard hurrying towards them. "Does that sailor want to speakto us, do you think? He seems in a great hurry. "

Torps stood at her side staring. 

The coastguard drew near, wiping his face with a vast blue and whitespotted handkerchief, for he had been running. "Beg pardon, sir, " hecalled as he came within earshot, "but would you be a naval officer?"

"I am, " replied Torps. "Why?"

The man saluted. "There's a telephone message just come through, sir, 'Prepare to mobilise. All officers and men are recalled from leave. '"

Torps stared at him. "Where did it come from--the message?"

"From the port, sir. I was to warn anyone I saw out this way . . . "

"Right; thank you. I'm going back now. " He turned towards Margaret. "Did you hear that?" There was a queer note of relief in his voice. 

"Yes, " she replied quietly. "The Drum. "

III

A CAPTAIN'S FORENOON

The Captain came out of his sleeping-cabin as the last chord of theNational Anthem died away on the quarter-deck overhead with the roll ofkettledrums. 

"Carry on!" sang the bugle; and the ship's company, their animationsuspended while the colours crept up the jackstaff, proceeded to"breakfast and clean. " The signalman whose duty it was to hoist theEnsign at 8 a. M. Turned up the halliards to his satisfaction, anddeparted forward in the wake of the band. 

The Captain had "cleaned" already, and his breakfast was on the tablein his fore-cabin. He sat down, glanced at the pile of letters besidehis plate, propped the morning paper against the teapot, and commencedhis meal. He ate with the deliberate slowness of a man accustomed tohaving meals in solitude, who has schooled himself not to abuse hisdigestion. 

As he ate his quick eye travelled over the headlines of the paper, occasionally concentrating on a paragraph here and there. Ten minutessufficed to give him a complete grasp of the day's affairs. The navalappointments he read carefully. His memory for names and individualswas unfailing; he never forgot anyone who had served under his command, and followed the careers of most with interest. His daily privatecorrespondence, which was large, testified to the fact that not manyforgot him. 

Breakfast over, he laid aside the paper, lit a cigarette, and turnedover the little pile of letters, identifying the writers with a glanceat the handwriting on each envelope. Only one was unknown to him: thathe placed last, and carried them into the after-cabin to read, leaninghis shoulder against the mantel of the tiled and brass-bound fireplace. 

The first letter he opened was from his wife, and, in consequence, itscontents were nobody's affair but his own. He read it twice, andsmiled as he returned it to the envelope. 

The next, written on thick notepaper stamped with the Admiralty crest, he also read twice, and mused awhile. Apparently this also wasnobody's concern but his, for, still deep in thought, he tore it up andput the pieces in the fire before taking up the third. This was anappeal for assistance from a former watch-keeper who aspired to theFlying Corps. The next was also a request for assistance from a youngofficer, who, having recently taken a wife to his bosom, apparentlyconsidered the achievement a qualification for the command of one ofH. M. Torpedo-boat destroyers. 

The Captain rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I sent him a silverphotograph frame. . . . He'll want me to be godfather next. " Heoccasionally spoke aloud when alone. 

An appeal for funds for a memorial to someone or another followed. Then two advertisements from wine merchants and a statement of hisaccount with his outfitter were consigned in turns into the fire. Thelast envelope, in the unknown hand, he scrutinised for a moment beforeopening. The postmark was local, the caligraphy illiterate. He openedthe letter and read it with an inscrutable face. Then, with a quickmovement as of disgust, he crumpled it up and threw it into the flames. It was anonymous, and was a threat, couched in lurid and ensanguinedterms, to murder him. 

Judges, and post-captains of the Royal Navy, perhaps as a reminder oftheir great responsibilities, occasionally receive communications ofthis nature. Their life insurance policies, however, appear to remainmuch the same as those of other people. 

 * * * * *

The after-cabin, where the Captain perused his correspondence, was anairy, chintz-upholstered apartment leading aft through two heavy steeldoors on to the stern-walk. The doors were open on that particularmorning, and the high, thin cries of seagulls quarrelling under thestern drifted through almost unceasingly. 

Forward, the white-enamelled bulkhead was pierced by two entrances. One led from a diminutive sleeping-cabin and bathroom, the other fromthe fore-cabin, which the Captain had just quitted, and which in turncommunicated with a lobby where a marine sentry paced day and night. 

The after-cabin was lit by a skylight overhead and scuttles in theship's side. The sunlight, streaming in through the starboard ones, winked on the butterfly clamps of burnished brass and small rods fromwhich the little chintz curtains hung. A roll-topped desk occupied acorner near the fireplace, and round the bulkheads, affixed to whiteenamelled battens, hung water-colour paintings of his ships. A sloopof war under full sail; a brig, close-hauled, beating out of PlymouthSound; a tiny gunboat at anchor in a backwater of the Upper Yangtse. There were spick-and-span cruisers; a quaint, top-heavy lookingbattleship that in her day had been considered the last word in navalconstruction, and whose name to-day provokes reminiscences from theolder generation and from the younger half-dubious smiles; then, nearthe door, came modern men-of-war of familiar aspect. They representedthe milestones of a long career. 

A chart lay folded on a table in the centre of the cabin, with a pairof dividers and a parallel ruler lying on it. Another table stood in acorner near the door--a small, glass-topped table such as collectors ofcurios gather their treasures in. The contents of this table, however, were not curios in the strict sense of the word. A number of them werevery commonplace objects, but each one held its particular associations. 

You will find just such a collection of insignificant mysteries in aboy's pocket or a jackdaw's nest. Bits of string, a marble polished byfriction, a piece of coloured glass, an old nail--in themselvesrubbish, but doubtless linking the possessor to some amiable memory, and cherished for no better reason. 

Some men retain this instinct of boyhood. But whereas the boy issecretive and reticent about the particular associations his pocketholds, the man will talk about his hoard. 

In the glass-topped table in that corner of the after-cabin were tieswith all the seven seas and the shores they wash. Mementoes of follyor friendship, sport or achievement; fragments of the mosaic that islife. 

A bit of brick from the Great Wall of China recalled a bag of geese inthe clear cold dusk of Northern Asia. Memories, too, of the whaler'sbeat back to the fleet in the teeth of a rising gale that swept in fromthe Pacific, when the bravest unlaced his boots and they baled with theempty guncase. 

There was a piece of the sacred pavement of Mecca, brought back in thedays when few Europeans had brought anything back from there--eventheir lives. A gold medal in a morocco-leather case, won by an essaythat had called for months of unrelaxed study. A copper bangle fromthe wrist of a Korean dancing-girl (it was somebody else's story, though). A wooden ju-ju from Benin, dark-stained and repulsive; a tinyclay godling that had guarded the mummied heart of an Egyptian queen. A flint arrow-head picked up on Dartmoor during a long summer trampafter the speckled trout. A jewelled cigarette-case, gift of anempress who could give no more than that, however much she may havewanted to. 

Rubbish, all rubbish. Yet occasionally, when two or threepost-captains, contemporaries and fleet-mates, gathered here to smokeafter-dinner cigars, the host would unlock the glass-topped table, select some object from his miscellany, and hold it up with a "D'youremember----?" And one or other of his guests--sometimes all ofthem--would laugh and nod and blow great clouds of smoke and slide intoeager reminiscence. Yesterday is the playground of all men's hearts, but more especially those of sailor men. These odds and ends were onlykeys that unlocked the gate. 

A few photographs stood on the shelf above the hearth. Some booksoccupied a revolving bookcase within reach of anyone sitting at thedesk; not very interesting books: old Navy Lists, a "King'sRegulations, " a "Manual of Court Martial Procedure, " one or two volumeson International Law, and a treatise on so-called 'modern'seamanship--which, by the way, is a misnomer, seamanship, like love, being of all time. 

The revolving bookcase supported a bowl of flowers. The Captain'sCoxswain had personally arranged them that morning; had, in fact, had aslight difference of opinion with the Captain's valet (conducted _sottovoce_) over the method of their arrangement. The Coxswain won on theclaim of being a married man and understanding mysteries beyond the kenof bachelors. The result in either case would have brought tears tothe eyes of any woman. 

 * * * * *

The Captain finished his cigarette and opened the roll-topped desk, slipped his letters into a pigeon-hole, and closed the desk again. Ashe did so the Commander entered the cabin, tucking his cap under hisarm. 

"Nine o'clock, sir; all ready for divisions. The Chaplain issick--will you read prayers?"

"Sick, is he? What's the matter?"

"He twisted his knee yesterday playing football. The Fleet Surgeon hasmade him lie up. "

The Captain nodded. "All right; I'll read them. " As the Commanderturned to go he spoke again: "By the way, that fellow I gave ninetydays to yesterday--was there a woman in the case, d'you happen to know?There was nothing in the evidence, of course, but I wondered----"

The Commander paused while the busy brain searched among its dockets. The man whose business it is as Executive Officer to control theaffairs of close on a thousand of his fellow men must of necessitysometimes learn curiously intimate details of their lives. 

"Yes; the Master-at-Arms mentioned to me that a woman was at the bottomof it. She's a wrong 'un, I understand. "

"Thank you. "

The Commander went out, and a moment later the bugle overhead blazedforth "Divisions. "

"I thought it was a woman's writing, " added the Captain musingly. 

"Divisions correct, sir!" The Commander saluted and made his report. 

The Captain returned the salute briskly. "Sound the 'Close. '"

The bugle sounded again, the bell began to toll for prayers, and theband on the after shelter-deck struck up a lively march as the men cameaft. 

Anyone interested in the study called physiognomy might with advantagehave taken his stand at this moment on the after part of thequarter-deck, where the shadow of the White Ensign curved and flickeredacross the planking. Perhaps the Captain, who stood there, was himselfa student of the art. At any rate, as the men marched aft through thescreen doors his level eyes passed from face to face, reflective, observant, intensely alert. 

The last division reached its allotted position on the quarter-deck, turned inboard, and stood easy. The band stopped abruptly. The bellceased tolling. In the brief ensuing silence the Commander's voice wasclearly audible as he made his report. 

"Everybody aft, sir. "

The Captain slipped a small prayer-book out of a side pocket. TheCommander gave a curt order, and five hundred heads bared to thesunlight. 

"Stand easy!"

There is much beauty in the sonorous periods of the English Rubric. Read in the strong, clear voice of a man who for thirty years had knowncalm and tempest, sunset and dawn at sea, the familiar words--of appealand praise alike--assumed somehow an unwonted significance; and when heclosed the book, slipped it back into his pocket, and looked up, theface he raised was the face of one who, whatever else his creed hadtaught him, found in all success the answer to some prayer, in everydisaster a call to courage and high endeavour. 

 * * * * *

Down in the after-cabin, five minutes later, the Fleet Surgeon handedthe sick-list to the Captain, who read it with care. For the firsttime that day his brow clouded. The two men looked at one another. 

"It is heavy, " said the Fleet Surgeon; "but----" He made animperceptible upward movement of the shoulders, for his mother had beenFrench. 

For some moments after he had gone the Captain stood staring outthrough the after doorway. A barge, heavily freighted, was passingslowly down-stream. His eyes followed the brown sail absently as longas it was within his field of vision. The anger had gone from his browand left a shadow of sadness. 

"'_Si j'etais Dieu_, '" he murmured, following some train of thought andmusing aloud as was his habit. Then, still in a brown study, he openedthe roll-topped desk and pressed a bell. 

"Tell Mr. Gerrard I'll sign papers, " he said to the marine sentry whoappeared in the doorway. 

"Double-O" Gerrard (so called because he wore glasses with circularlenses and his name made you think of telephones) answered the summons, carrying a sheaf of papers. He was the Captain's Clerk: that is tosay, the junior accountant officer, detailed by the Captain to conducthis official correspondence and perform secretarial work generally. The position is not one commonly sought after, but Double-O Gerrardappeared to enjoy his duties, and as a badge of office carried aperpetual inkstain on the forefinger-tip of his right hand. 

The Captain sat down at his desk with a little sigh. If the truth beknown, he had small relish for this business of "papers. " He picked uphis pen and examined the nib. 

"Do you ever use your pen to clean a pipe out?" he asked his Clerk. 

"Oh no, sir. "

"I suppose it depends on the nib one uses whether it suffers much. "With a piece of blotting paper the Captain removed fragments of tobaccoash and nicotine from the nib, and dipped it in the ink. "It doesn'tseem to hurt mine. Now then, what have we got here?"

A quarter of an hour later he pushed aside the last of the pile ofdocuments and lit a cigarette with the air of a man who had earned asmoke. 

"Any defaulters?"

"No, sir, none for you to-day. "

"Humph! Tell the Commander I'll buy him a pair of white kid gloveswhen I go ashore. Request-men?"

His Clerk placed a book upon the desk open at a list of names. TheCaptain ran down them with a pencil. 

"Badges, all entitled? . . . Stop allotment--who does he allot to?Mother? . . . Restoration to first class for leave. . . . To be ratedLeading Seaman--Jones. Jones? Oh, yes, I know: youngster in thequarter-deck division with a broken nose. The Commander spoke to meabout him. " The pencil slowly descended to the bottom of the page, ticking off each man's request as it was gone into and explained. Hestopped at the last one. "'To see Captain about private affairs. 'What's his trouble?"

"I don't know, sir. He put in his request to see you through theMaster-at-Arms. He didn't say what it was about. "

The Captain closed the book. "All seamen, eh? No Marine request-men?"

"No, sir. "

"Right. I'll see 'em at eleven. " The Clerk gathered the paperstogether and departed. As he went out there was a tap at the door. The Captain frowned. The tap was repeated. 

"Don't knock, " he called out. "If you've got anything to report, comein and report it. "

The Chief Yeoman of Signals entered with an embarrassed air. He wasnew to the ship, and, as everyone knows, all captains have their littlepeculiarities. Here he was up against one right away. He'd never hadmuch luck. 

"I don't want anyone to knock when they come into my cabin on duty. I'm not a young woman in her boudoir. "

"Aye, aye, sir, " said the Chief Yeoman. "Signal log, sir. "

 * * * * *

"Don't forget now, " counselled the Master-at-Arms to the request-menfallen in on the starboard side of the quarter-deck. "When your namesis called out, step smartly up to the table, an' keep your caps on. You salutes when you steps up to the table an' when you leaves it. "

The request-men, who had heard all this a good many times before, sucked their teeth in acquiescence. 

The Captain was walking up and down the other side of the deck talkingto the Commander. They turned together and came towards the table. The Captain's Clerk opened the request-book and laid it before theCaptain. 

"'Erbert Reynolds, " intoned the Master-at-Arms in a stentorian voice. "Able seaman. Requests award of first Good Conduct Badge. "

The Captain put his finger on the first name at the top of the page, glanced keenly at the applicant, and nodded. "Granted. "

"Granted, " echoed the Chief of Police, and Able Seaman Reynoldsdeparted with authority to wear on his left arm the triangular redbadge that vouched to his exemplary behaviour for the last three years. 

Five others followed in quick succession with similar requests, andtrotted forward again at a dignified and amiable gait through thescreen door. 

"To stop allotment. " The Captain raised his head. 

"Who do you allot to?"

"Me mother, sir. "

"Doesn't she want it?"

The request-man was a young stoker, little more than a boy, and hiseyes were troubled. 

"She don't deserve it, " he replied; "she drinks, sir. I got lettersfrom fr'en's----" He thrust his hand inside the breast of his jumperand produced his sad evidence--a letter from a clergyman, one or twofrom lay-workers in some north-country slum, and one from his motherherself, an incoherent, abusive scrawl, with liquor stains still uponthe creased paper. 

"I send 'er my 'arf-pay reg'lar ever since I were in the Navy, sir. But she ain't goin' ter 'ave no more. " He made the statement withoutheat or sorrow. 

"Stopped, " said the Captain, with a nod. 

"Allotment stopped, " repeated the Master-at-Arms, and the allotterpassed forward out of sight to whatever destiny awaited him. 

"To be rated Leading Seaman, sir. "

A tall, young Able Seaman stepped forward and fixed eyes of a clearblue on the Captain's face. 

The Captain met his gaze, and for a moment threw all the weight ofthirty years' experience of men into the scales of judgment. "There isa vacancy for a Leading Seaman's rate in the ship, " he said. "TheCommander has recommended you for it. You're young. Keep it. "

"Rated Leading Seaman. 'Bout turn. "

The newly created Leading Seaman, whose nose was a reminder of thevagaries of the main sheet block of a cutter when going about, flushedwith pleasure and turned smartly on his heel. The vacant rate was dueto a lapse from rectitude on the part of one Biggers, leading hand ofthe quarter-deck, who had returned from leave with a small flat flasktucked inside his cholera belt. The flask contained whisky, and hadbeen thrust there by a friend ashore in an access of maudlingood-fellowship on parting. The night had been a convivial one, andLeading Seaman Biggers overlooked the gift until, coming on board, thekeen-eyed officer of the watch drew his attention to it. He paid forthe misplaced generosity of his well-wisher with his "Killick. "[1]

He happened, moreover, to be employed in coiling down a rope--in thecapacity he had reverted to--while his supplanter received the rating;but he eyed the ceremony stoically and without resentment. He hadfailed, and, of his less frail brethren, another was raised up in hisstead. It was the immutable law. 

"To be restored to the first class for leave. "

A stout Able Seaman stepped forward, and, from force of a habitengendered by long familiarity with the etiquette of the defaulters'table, removed his cap. 

"_Put_ yer cap on, " added the Master-at-Arms in a fierce undertone. 

The suppliant deftly replaced his cap. As he did so a packet ofcigarettes, a skein of darning worsted and a picture postcard(depicting a stout lady in a pink costume surf bathing) fell out on tothe deck in the manner of an unexpected conjuring trick. An attendantship's corporal retrieved them, while the conjurer affected an air ofcomplete detachment. 

The Captain glanced at the conduct book. "Clean sheet?Right--restored to the first class. And see if you can't stop in itthis time. "

The stout one made guttural noises in his throat intended to conveyassurances of future piety, and departed with an expression thatsuggested a halo had not only descended upon his head, but had beencrammed inextricably over his ears. 

The last request-man--the man with "private affairs"--was a smallleading stoker with a face seamed by innumerable tiny wrinkles. Hisskin resembled a piece of parchment that somebody had crumpled in a fitof petulance and made a half-hearted attempt to smooth out again; evenhis ears were crumpled. His brown eyes, big and sad, were like theeyes of a suffering monkey. 

The Commander interposed with an explanation: "This man wishes to seeyou about a private matter, sir. "

The Captain made a little gesture with his hand, and the small group ofofficers and ship's police near the table stepped back a few paces outof earshot. The Commander, perhaps the busiest man on board, snatchedthe moment's respite to confer with the Carpenter, who had beenhovering round waiting for his opportunity. The Master-at-Arms wasstanding by the bollards alternately sucking a stump of pencil andmaking cryptic notations in his request-book. The two ship's corporalshad removed themselves with great delicacy of feeling to the screendoor, where in an undertone they settled an argument as to whose turnit was to make out the leave tickets. The Captain's Clerk becameinterested in the progress of work in an ammunition lighter alongside. 

The Captain, with knitted brows, was reading a letter that had beenhanded to him across the table. He folded it up when read, and handedit back to the recipient; then, holding his chin in his fist andsupporting the elbow with the other hand, he listened to the tale thesmall man with the crumpled ears had to unfold. It was an oldtale--old when Helen first met the eyes of Paris. But there was noveil of romance to soften the outline of its crude tragedy. It wasjust sordid and pitiful. 

For five minutes, perhaps, the two men faced each other. At the end ofthat time the Captain was leaning forward resting both hands on thetable, talking in grave, kindly tones. He talked, not as Captainscommonly talk to Leading Stokers, but as one man might talk to anotherwho turned to him for advice in the bitter hour of need, drawing on thedeep well of his experience, education, and kindly judgment. 

"Troubles shared are troubles halved. " The Captain had said so, andthe tot of rum served out at one-bell to the little man with thecrumpled ears went some way to complete the conviction. 

 * * * * *

Jeremiah Casey, Petty Officer and Captain's Coxswain, hauled himselfnimbly up the Jacob's ladder to the quarter-boom and came inboard. TheCaptain was walking up and down, deep in thought, with his hands linkedbehind his back. Casey pattered up and saluted. 

"I've bent on that noo mainsail, sir. . . . There's a nice li'lsailin' breeze, sir. " Casey, hinting at a spin in the galley, somehowreminded one of a spaniel when he sees the gun-case opened. Had hebeen blessed with a tail, he would most certainly have wagged it. 

The Captain walked slowly aft and looked down into the galley lying atthe quarter-boom. Few men could have resisted the appeal of that longslim boat with the water lapping invitingly against her clinker-builtsides. The brasswork in her gleamed in the sun like jewels set inivory, for the woodwork was as near the whiteness of ivory as holystoneand sharkskin could make it. She had little white mats with blueborders on the thwarts and in the sternsheets, and her yoke, of curiousChinese design, had a history as mysterious and legendary as thediamonds of Marie Antoinette. 

"Get her alongside, " said the Captain. "I want to try that mainsail. "

Five minutes later the galley was spinning across the sparkling watersof the harbour. 

Once the Captain spoke, and the bowman moved his weight six inchesforward. Then she sailed to his light touch on the helm as a violingives out sound under the bow of a master. 

Casey, sitting motionless on the bottom boards with the mainsheet inhis hands, gazed rapturously at the new mainsail, and thence into thestolid countenance of the second stroke. 

"Ain't she a _witch_?" he whispered. 

For half an hour the galley skimmed to and fro among the anchoredfleet, now running free like a white-winged gull, anon close-hauled, the razor bows cleaving a path through the dancing water in a littlesickle of creaming foam. 

The Captain brought her alongside the gangway with faultless judgmentand stood up. Like Saul, he had taken the cares of high command to awitch, and lo! his brow was clear and his eyes twinkled. 

"Yes, " he said in even tones as he stepped out of the boat, "thatmainsail sets all right, " and ran briskly up the ladder two steps at atime. 

Casey thumbed the lacing on the yard. "Perfection is finality, andfinality is death. "

"I don't know but what I wouldn't shift the strop '_arf_ an inchaft--mebbe a quarter . . . "

Inboard the ship's bell struck eight times, and the boatswain's matebegan shrilly piping the hands to dinner. 

[1] Anchor. The distinctive badge of a leading rating. 

IV

THE SEVEN-BELL BOAT

The last answering pendant from the Fleet shot up above the bridgerails, and the impatient semaphore on the Flagship's bridge commencedwaving its arms. 

The Yeoman of the Watch in the second ship of the line steadied hisglass against an angle of the chart house. "'Ere y'are! Write down, one 'and. " A Signal-boy stepped to his elbow with a pad and pencil inreadiness. 

"Flag--general: Leave may be granted to officers from 8. 30 to 7 p. M. Officers are not to leave the vicinity of the town, and are to beprepared for immediate recall. " He lowered the glass sharply. "Finish. Down Answer!"

Obedient to the order, a Signal-man brought the long tail of buntingdown hand over hand. He hitched the slack of the halliard to thebridge rail and puckered his eyes, staring across the waters of theharbour to where the roofs of houses showed among the trees. "'Ow Ipities orficers!" he observed under his breath, and walked to the endof the bridge. 

The advertisement of a cinema theatre occupied a hoarding near thelanding place; away to the left the sloping roof of what wasunmistakably a brewery bore in huge block letters the exhortation:

 DRINK PALE ALE

"Not 'arf, " murmured the cynic at the end of the battleship's bridge. He mused darkly and added, "I don't think. "

The Yeoman of the Watch took the pad from the boy's hand, scribbled anotation on it, and handed it back: "Commander an' Officer of theWatch, Wardroom, Gunroom, an' Warrant Officers' Mess. Smart!"

The boy flung himself down the ladder, sped aft along the fore-and-aftbridge, turned at the shelter-deck, descended another ladder, andbrought up in the battery. Here the Commander came in view, conferringmysteriously with the Boatswain over a length of six-inch wire hawserthat lay along the upper deck. The Boatswain, with gloom in hiscountenance, was indicating a section where the strands were flattenedand the hemp "heart" protruded in a manner indicating that all was notwell with the six-inch wire hawser. In fact, it rather resembled asnake that had been run over. The Commander was rubbing his chinthoughtfully. 

The Signal-boy hovered on the outskirts of the conference. Bitterexperience in the past had taught him not to obtrude when deep calledthus to deep. 

"We must cut it where it's nipped, and put a splice in it, Mr. Cassidy, " the Commander was saying, and turned his head. 

The boy seized the opportunity to thrust the pad within range of theCommander's vision, one eye cocked on his face to note the effect ofthis momentous communication. He half expected that the Commanderwould throw his cap in the air and shout "Hurrah!"

The Commander read it unmoved. "Show it to the Officer of the Watch, "he said, and turned again to the wire hawser. Truly a man of iron, reflected the Signal-boy as he saluted and ran aft in search of theOfficer of the Watch. 

The Officer of the Watch received the intelligence with almost equalunconcern, but when the boy had departed out of earshot he saidsomething in an undertone and added: "Just my blooming luck. " Then, raising his voice, he shouted: "Quartermaster! Picket-boat alongsideat three-thirty for officers. "

A head emerged from the hood of the after turret. The GunneryLieutenant, wearing over-alls, a streak of dirt running diagonally downone cheek, emerged and drew off a greasy glove to wipe his face. 

"Did I hear you say anything about a seven-bell boat?"

The Officer of the Watch nodded. "There's leave from three-thirty toseven p. M. It's three o'clock now, so I advise you to smack it aboutand clean if you're going ashore. "

The Gunnery Lieutenant slid gracefully down the sloping shield of theturret. Fortunately, the consideration of paint-work vanished with thered dawn of August 5th, 1914. 

"My word!" he said, staring towards the distant town. "My missus----"and vanished down the hatchway. 

In the meanwhile the Signal-boy had descended to the wardroom, where heswiftly pinned the signal on to the notice board. The occupants of thearm-chairs and settee followed his movements with drowsy interest. 

The Young Doctor rose and walked to the notice board. 

"Snooks!" he ejaculated. "Leave!" And, with a glance at the clock, hurried out of the mess. 

The remainder of his messmates sat up with excitement. 

"What time?"

"When till?"

"What about a boat?"

The head of the Officer of the Watch appeared through the open skylightoverhead. "Wake up, you Weary Willies. There's a boat to the beach atseven-bells. "

"Come along, chaps, " snorted the Major of Marines. "_Allons nousshifter_--let us shift. " And he, too, made tracks for his cabin, followed by everybody who could be spared by "the exigencies of theservice" to experience for three blessed hours the joys of the land. 

The shrill voices of the Midshipmen at their toilet in the after flatproclaimed that the precious moments were flying. Three weresimultaneously performing their ablutions in one basin, the supply ofwater to the bathroom having failed with a suddenness that could onlybe attributed to the malignant agency of the Captain of the Hold. 

Another burrowed feverishly in the depths of his sea-chest, presentingto the flat much the same appearance as a terrier does when busy at arabbit-hole. He emerged flushed but triumphant with a limp garment inhis grasp. "I knew I had a clean shirt, " he confided to his neighbour. "I told my servant so a fortnight ago. He swore that every one Ipossessed had been left behind in the wash at Malta. "

His neighbour made no reply, being in the throes of buttoning a collarwhich fitted him admirably at Osborne College, but which somehow hadlately exhibited an obstinate determination to meet no more round hisneck. However, physical strength achieved the miracle, and he breatheddeeply. "I shouldn't sweat to shift your shirt, " he consoled. "Itlooks all right. Turn the cuffs up. "

"I've turned them up three times already, " replied the excavator, donning his find. "There are limits. "

Another Midshipman came across the crowded flat and calmly rummaged inthe open till of the speaker's sea-chest. "Where's your hair juice?All right, I've got it. " He anointed himself generously with amysterious green fluid out of a bottle. "My people are staying at apub ashore here. Will you come and have tea, Jaggers? Kedgeree'scoming, too. "

The owner of the green unguent, who was feverishly dusting his bootswith a pyjama jacket, signified his pleasure in accepting theinvitation. 

The sentry on the aft-deck stepped to the head of the ladder with abellows, on the mouth of which a small fog-horn was fitted, and gave aloud blast. It was the customary warning that the officers' boat wouldbe alongside in five minutes. 

The Assistant Clerk ran distractedly for the ladder. 

"There's one 'G'! Have I got time to borrow five bob from the messmanbefore the boat shoves off?"

"You might borrow five bob for me while you're about it, " shouted abelated Engineroom Watchkeeper, struggling into his clothes. 

"And me, too, " called another. "Buck up, for the Lord's sake, andwe'll have poached eggs for tea. "

"And cherry jam, " supplemented another visionary voluptuously, "andradishes. "

Here a figure, who had been sitting on the lid of his chest swinginghis legs, tilted his cap on to the back of his head with a snort thatsuggested outlawry and defiance to the world at large. 

"Hallo!" exclaimed a neighbour, wielding a clothes-brush with energy. "What's up? Aren't you coming ashore? It isn't your First Dog, is it?"

The outlaw shook his head. "No; my leave's jambed. You know thatbeastly six-inch wire hawser? We were bringing it to the after capstanyesterday, and the Commander----"

The aft-deck sentry gave two blasts on his fog-horn. Chest lidsbanged, keys rattled. 

"Jolly rough luck!" commiserated his friend, and joined the stampedefor the quarterdeck. 

In thirty seconds the flat was deserted save for the disconsolatefigure swinging his legs. Presently he climbed down from his chest andwended his way by devious and stealthy routes to the afterconning-tower, where he smoked a surreptitious cigarette in defiance ofthe King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions (his age beingsixteen) and felt better. 

In the meanwhile the picket-boat was driving her way shoreward with theemancipated members of Wardroom and Gunroom clustered on top of thecabin and in the stern sheets. 

"Bunje, " said the First Lieutenant, "come to the club and have tea andplay 'pills' afterwards?"

The Indiarubber Man shook his head. "No, thanks; I'm afraid I--I'vegot something else to do. "

The Paymaster contemplated him thoughtfully. "Bunje, my lad, thedarkest suspicions fill my breast. Wherefore these carefully creasedtrousers, this liberal display of fine linen and flashing cuff-linkswithal? Our Sunday monkey-jacket, too. Can it be----? No. " Heappealed to the occupants of the stern sheets: "Don't tell me the ladis going poodle-faking!"[1]

"His hands are warm and moist, " confirmed one of the Watchkeepers. "Hewipes them furtively on the slack of his trousers in frightenedanticipation. "

The Indiarubber Man reddened. "You silly asses!"

The Junior Watchkeeper squirmed with delight. "He is--he _is_! He'sgoing poodle-faking. And in war time, too! You dog, Bunje!"

"Can't a fellow know people ashore without a lot of untutored clownstrying to be funny about it?" demanded the victim. 

"It's the spring, " said the Young Doctor. "Bunje's young fancy islightly turning--yes, it is. " The Surgeon sniffed the air judicially. "The bay rum upon your hair proclaims it. Ah, me! The heyday ofyouth!" He sighed. "'Time was when love and I were well acquainted. '"

"That's a fact, " retorted the Indiarubber Man bitterly. "But youneedn't brag about it. I haven't been shipmates with you for fouryears for nothing. There's nothing you can tell me about your hideouspast that I don't know already. "

The picket-boat slid alongside the landing place and went astern. 

The Engineer Commander made his way towards the little cabin. As thesenior officer of the party, his was the privilege of embarking lastand disembarking first. "Don't wait for me, " he said. "Unstow! I'vegot to get my golf-clubs. "

The Indiarubber Man took him at his word. "Right. I'll carry on, if Imay. " He leaped ashore, and set off with long strides in the directionof the town. 

The First Lieutenant gazed after him. There was a general feeling thatthe Indiarubber Man had suddenly assumed an unfamiliar and inexplicablerole. "Now, what the devil is he up to, I wonder?"

The others, mystified, shook their heads. 

2

The mothers of Midshipmen have a means of scenting the whereabouts of afleet that mere censorship of letters cannot balk. There were at leasthalf a dozen mothers in the _foyer_ of the big, garish hotel on thesea-front. Some were tête-à-tête with their sons in snug, upholsteredcorners, learning aspects of naval warfare that no historian will everrecord. Others presided over heavily laden tea-tables at which theirsons and their sons' more intimate friends were dealing with eggs andbuttered toast, marmalade, watercress, plum-cake, and toasted scones ina manner which convinced their half-alarmed relatives that famine musthave stalked the British Navy ever since the War started. 

"We shall never have time, " said one mother, "to hear all you have totell, dear. "

"There's really nothing very much to tell you about, mother. Can Iorder some more jam? And Jaggers could scoff some more eggs, couldn'tyou, Jag? Waiter, two more poached eggs and some more strawberry jam. You see, dear, we haven't done anything exciting yet. That's all beenthe luck of the battle-cruisers and destroyers. They've had a toppingrag--three of our term have been wounded already. But we aren'tallowed to gas about what we're going to do--why, that waiter might bea German spy, for all we know. "

"Didn't know the Admiral confided his plans for the future toMidshipmen, " commented an amused father, who had run down from the WarOffice for the day. 

"He doesn't _confide_ them, " admitted another, "but my chest is in theflat outside his steward's cabin, and, of course, _he_ hears an awfullot. "

"But, Georgie, tell us about your life. Do you get enough sleep?"queried his mother. 

"Rather, " replied her son, whose horizon three months before had beenbounded by the playing fields of Dartmouth College, where thedormitories are maintained at an even temperature by costly andhygienic methods. "We're in four watches, you know--we get one nightin in four. At sea we sleep at our guns. I've got one of thesix-inch, and we get up quite a good fug in our casemate at night. Jaggers dosses in the after-control. It's a bit breezy up there, isn'tit, Old Bird?"

The Old Bird signified that the rigours of Arctic exploration were asnothing to what he had undergone. 

"And your swimming-jacket--the one Aunt Jessie sent you? The outfittersaid it was quite comfortable to wear. I hope you always do wear it atsea, in case--in case you should ever need it. "

Her son chuckled. "The pneumatic one? Well, we liked it awfully whenit came, and we blew it up; and then we thought we'd have a bit ofscrum practice one night after dinner, and we rolled it up for a ball, and--and the half wasn't nippy enough in getting it away to thethree-quarters, and somehow or another it got punctured. But I wear itall right, mother. It's jolly warm at nights. "

"And do you like your officers--is the Captain kind to you all?"

The boy stirred his tea thoughtfully. 

"They're a topping lot. One has got the Humane Society's gold medalfor jumping on top of a shark at Perim when it was just going to collara fellow bathing--you'd never think it to look at him. There's anotherwe call the Indiarubber Man, who takes us at physical drill everymorning. He's frightfully strong, and they say he licked the Japaneseju-jitsu man they had at the School of Physical Training. And, ofcourse, there's old Beggs. You know, he was captain ofEngland--Rugger--some years ago. He's broken his nose threetimes. . . . "

"We all skylark together in the dog-watches, " added another. "We put aseining-net round the quarter-deck, and play cricket or deck hockeyevery evening after tea to keep fit. "

"And they come into the gun-room when we have a sing-song on guestnights, and kick up a frightful shine. Oh, they're an awful fine lot. "

"The Captain is a topper, too. He has us to breakfast in turns. "

A third took up the epic. If you have ever heard schoolboys vie witheach other to laud and honour the glory of their own particular Houseamong strangers in a strange land, you can imagine much that cannot beconveyed with the pen. There were similar tea parties in variouscorners of the hotel and in lodgings along the sea-front, but theconversation at all of them ran on much the same lines, and this may beconsidered a fair sample of the majority. 

"He gives a lecture every few days showing what is going on at thefront. His brother's a General, and, of course, he gets any amount oftips from him. The brother of one of our Snotties--Karrard--was killedat Mons, and the Captain sent for Karrard (who's rather a kid and feltit awfully) and showed him a letter from the General about Karrard'sbrother--he had seen him killed--which bucked Karrard up tremendously. In fact, he rather puts on side now, because he's the only one in thegun-room who has lost a brother. "

"And you don't wish you were back at Dartmouth again?"

"Dartmouth!" The speaker's voice was almost scornful. "Why, mother. Kedgeree here would have got his First Eleven cap this term if we'dstayed, and even he----"

A small midshipman with remarkable steel-grey eyes, who had nothitherto spoken much, shook his head emphatically and flushed athearing his nickname pronounced in open conversation ashore. "We weretreated like kids there, " he explained. "But now----" He jerked hishead towards the north with that unfailing sense of the cardinal pointsof the compass which a seaman acquires in earliest youth, or not atall. Somewhere in that direction the German fleet was presumed to beskulking. "It's different, " he ended a little lamely. 

Suddenly the son leaned forward and pressed his mother's knee under thetable. A tall, sinewy Engineer Commander was walking across the_foyer_ on his way to the billiard room. 

"There, mother, that's old Beggs. He had our term at Osborne. Did yousee his nose? . . . Captain of England!" . . . The speaker broke offand lifted his head, listening. 

Through the doorway opening on to the sea-front there drifted a faintsound, the silvery note of a distant bugle. 

"Hush!" said one of the others, raising a warning hand. "Listen!"

3

At the window of one of the detached houses in the residential part ofthe town a small Naval Cadet stood with his nose flattened against thewindow-pane. 

"I say, Betty, " he ejaculated presently, "they're giving leave to theFleet. I can see crowds of officers coming ashore. "

His sister continued to knit industriously. "Well, I don't suppose anyof them are coming here. You needn't get so excited. "

Her brother watched the uniformed figures filing along the distant roadfrom the landing place. "I hope this war goes on for another couple ofyears, " he sighed. 

"Joe! You mustn't say such dreadful things. You don't know whatyou're talking about. "

"That's all jolly fine, but you haven't got to do another year atOsborne---- I say, Betty, one of them _is_ coming here! How jollyexciting! He's coming up the avenue now. He's got red hair. . . . Ibelieve--yes, it's--what was the name of that Lieutenant at Jack'swedding, d'you remember? The funny man. He made you giggle all thetime. "

For a moment the knitting appeared to demand his sister's undividedattention; she bent her head over it. "That was a long timeago--before I put my hair up. I'm sure I didn't giggle either. Oh, yes, I think I remember who you mean. Is he coming here? Iwonder--come away from the window, Joe!"

The front door bell rang in a distant part of the house; she droppedher knitting on a small side table and walked quietly out of the room. "I'll tell mother, " she said as she went out. 

"You needn't trouble to do that, " said Joe. "She's out--I thought youknew. " But the door had closed. 

A moment later the Indiarubber Man was ushered in. The tworepresentatives of His Majesty's Navy shook hands. "I recognised youfrom your photograph, " said the host. "D'you remember the weddinggroup? You were a groomsman when Jack and Milly were married, weren'tyou?"

"I was, " replied the Indiarubber Man. "I performed a number of menialoffices that day. But were you there? I don't seem to remember you. "

Joe shook his head. "No, I had mumps. Wasn't it rot? It must havebeen an awful good rag. But I remember about you because Betty told meafterwards--she's my sister, you know. She said you were--oh, here sheis. "

Betty entered. She cast one swift glance at her brother that mighthave been intended to convey interrogation or admonition, or both, andthen greeted the Indiarubber Man with friendly composure. "How nice ofyou to come and see us! Mother is out, I'm afraid, but she willprobably be in presently. Do sit down. Yes, of course I rememberyou--Joe, ring the bell, and we'll have tea. "

"We were 'opposite numbers' at your brother's wedding, " said theIndiarubber Man, taking a seat, and nervously hitching up the legs ofhis trousers to an unnecessary extent. 

"Yes, I remember restraining you with difficulty from going into thegarden to eat worms! Nobody----" she broke off abruptly. "What a longtime ago that seems!" She laughed quietly and considered him withmerriment in her pretty eyes. The Indiarubber Man made a swift mentalcomparison between the schoolgirl bridesmaid who vied with midshipmenin devouring ices, and his hostess of three years or so later. 

"Doesn't it?" he said. For one instant their eyes met, shylyquestioning, a little curious. The laughter died out of hers. 

"My eldest brother's in the North Sea now. We haven't seen him sincethe War started. "

The Indiarubber Man nodded. "Yes, he's in a battle-cruiser, isn't he?We don't get ashore much either, as a matter of fact. But to-day----"He entered into a lengthy statement of naval policy that led up to hisvisit and the circumstances connected with it. It was a rather tediousexplanation, but it filled in the time till tea arrived, when Bettybusied herself among the tea-cups; her brother drew his chair close totheir guest, and sat regarding him with breathless expectancy. Wasthis the side-splitting humorist Betty had talked so much about formonths after the wedding--and then abruptly refused to mention again?

Joe experienced a growing sense of disillusionment. There was nothingabout the Indiarubber Man's conversation to justify high hopes oflaughter-provoking humour. In fact, the guest's general demeanourcompared unfavourably with that of the curate--a shy young man, victim(had Joe but known it) of a hopeless and unrequited passion. 

Joe handed the Indiarubber Man his cup with the air of one prepared toenjoy at all events the spectacle of a juggling trick with the teaspoonor saucer. The guest's chief concern, however, appeared to be infinding a more secure resting-place for it than his knee, coupled withanxiety not to drop crumbs on the carpet. 

Betty, presiding behind the silver tea-tray, had adopted her mostgrown-up manner. Decidedly it was all Betty's fault, therefore. Themost confirmed humorist could hardly be expected to indulge indrolleries in the presence of a girl who stuck her nose in the air andput on enough side for six. It became increasingly obvious that thedepressed jester must straightway be removed from this blightinginfluence or ever the cap and bells would jingle. 

No sooner was tea over, therefore, than Joe sprang to his feet. "Isay, would you like to go for a walk?" Once outside, the flower of witwould expand without a doubt. 

The Indiarubber Man appeared nonplussed at the proposal. "I--it's verykind of you----" Then he turned to Betty. "Shall we all three go fora walk?"

"Oh, it's no use asking her to go for a proper walk, " interposed thealarmed Joe. "Her skirts are too narrow; she can't keep step, or jumpditches, or anything. "

Betty laughed. "Are you anxious to jump ditches, Mr. Standish?Because, if not, I think I might be able to keep up with you both. "She rose to her feet, a slim, gracefully modelled young woman wholooked perfectly capable of keeping up with anyone--or of jumpingditches, too, for that matter. "I'll get my things if you will wait asecond. " Joe, unseen by their guest, made a face at her of unfeignedbrotherly disgust. 

In the open air, however, the guest's spirits gave no more evidence ofan upward tendency than they had indoors. The trio walked, via the seafront, to the gardens on top of the cliffs that overlooked the harbour. Joe directed the conversation; it was largely concerned with battle andbloodshed. 

"Mr. Standish, what do you do in action?" he asked presently. 

"Nothing, " was the reply. "I just put my fingers in my ears and shutmy eyes--I'm the officer of the after turret. But when it's all over Iput on overalls and crawl about the works on my stomach and get a dirtyface with the best of them. A wit once defined a turret as a bundle oftricks done up in armour. "

"Is it thick armour?" asked Betty. 

"They tell me it is--fellows on board who pretend to know everything. But I suspect that to be a mere ruse to get me to stay inside it. "

Joe sighed. "I _do_ envy you, " he said. "Everyone seems to havesomething to do, 'cept me. Even Betty here----"

The Indiarubber Man turned his head sharply. "Why, what----"

Betty turned pink. "I'm going to nurse--on the East Coast. My oldschool has been turned into a hospital. And the other day MissDacre--she was the principal, you know, and she is nursing therenow--wrote to mother and said they would take me. "

"But, " said the Indiarubber Man, "d'you think you could stickit--hacking off fellows' legs, and that sort of thing? Blessed if Icould do it. "

"Oh, yes, " was the calm reply. "I passed all my exams, a long timeago--in fact, I've been working down here at this hospital for the lastsix months. We learned a good deal at school, you see. Home nursing, and so on. "

"Did you, by Jove! Simple dishes for the sick-room and spica bandages, and all the rest of it?"

Betty laughed. "Oh, yes, all that. "

The Indiarubber Man glanced at her small, capable hands, and from themto the dainty profile beside him. "Well, " he said, "if I get bent byan eight-inch shell I shall know where to come. "

Betty laughed again; "I should have to look that up in a book, then, before I nursed you. It might mean complications!"

"It might, " replied the Indiarubber Man. 

From the town below, where here and there a window went suddenly aflarewith the reflection of the sunset-light, there drifted up to them thefaint, clear call of a bugle. Another took it up along the front, andyet another. The Indiarubber Man raised his head abruptly. 

"That's the recall!" he said, and turned towards the ships. "Yes, they've hoisted the Blue Peter. I wonder--the boats are coming in, too. "

"Does that mean you must go at once?"

He nodded soberly. "I'm afraid so, " and held out his hand. "Good-bye. "

"Hallo!" said Joe. "I say, you're not off, are you? What's up?"

"That's what I'm going to find out, " was the reply. "I believe it'sanother of their dodges to lure me inside my turret. Good-bye, MissBetty. Don't forget to read up the book of the words--in case ofcomplications. . . . Good-bye!" The Indiarubber Man departed down oneof the steep paths that led to the lower road and the landing-place. The brother and sister turned and walked slowly back to the house. 

Their conversation on the way was confined to speculation on the partof Joe as to the reason for this sudden recall. His theories covered awide range of possibilities. Only when they reached the house didBetty volunteer a remark, and then in the privacy of her own room, whose window looked out across the harbour and the sea. 

"Oh, I hate the War, " she said. "I hate it, I _hate_ it. . . . "

[1] Paying calls. 

V

THE KING'S PARDON

Ask the first thousand bluejackets you meet ashore, any afternoon theFleet is giving leave, why they joined the navy. Nine hundred andninety-nine will eye you suspiciously, awaiting the inevitable tract. Ifnone is forthcoming they will give a short, grim laugh, shake theirheads, and, as likely as not, expectorate. These portents may be takento imply that they really do not know themselves, or are too shy to sayso, if they do. 

The thousandth does not laugh. He may shake his head; spit he certainlywill. And then, scenting silent sympathy, he guides you to a quietbar-parlour where you can pay for his beer while he talks. 

This is the man with a past and a grievance. 

 * * * * *

Nosey Baines, Stoker Second-class, was a man with a past. He also owneda grievance when he presented himself for entry into His Majesty's Navy. They were about his only possessions. 

"Nosey" was not, of course, his strict baptismal name. That wasOrson--no less. Therein lay the past. "Nosey" was the result of facialpeculiarities quite beyond his control. His nose was out of proportionto the remainder of his features. This system of nomenclature survivesfrom the Stone Age, and, sailors being conservative folk, still findsfavour on the lower-decks of H. M. Ships and Vessels. 

The Writer in the Certificate Office at the Naval Depot, where NoseyBaines was entered for service as a Second-class Stoker under training, had had a busy morning. There had been a rush of new entries owing tothe conclusion of the hop-picking season, the insolvency of a localginger-beer bottling factory, and other mysterious influences. Nosey'sparchment certificate (that document which accompanies a man from ship toship, and, containing all particulars relating to him, is said to be aman's passport through life) was the nineteenth he had made out thatmorning. 

"Name?"

Nosey spelt it patiently. 

"Religion?"

Nosey looked sheepish and rather flattered--as a Hottentot might if youasked him for the address of his tailor. The Writer gave the surface ofthe parchment a preparatory rub with a piece of indiarubber. "Well, comeon--R. C. , Church of England, Methodist . . . ?"

Nosey selected the second alternative. It sounded patriotic at allevents. 

"Next o' kin? Nearest relative?"

"Never 'ad none, " replied Nosey haughtily. "I'm a norfun. "

"Ain't you got _no_ one?" asked the weary Writer. He had been doing thissort of thing for the last eighteen months, and it rather bored him. "S'pose you was to die--wouldn't you like no one to be told?"

Nosey brought his black brows together with a scowl and shook his head. This was what he wanted, an opportunity to declare his antagonism to allthe gentler influences of the land. . . . If he were to die, even . . . 

The Ship's Corporal, waiting to guide him to the New Entry Mess, touchedhim on the elbow. The Writer was gathering his papers together. Asudden wave of forlornness swept over Nosey. He wanted his dinner, andwas filled with emptiness and self-pity. The world was vast anddisinterested in him. There were evidences on all sides of an unfamiliarand terrifying discipline. . . . 

"You come allonger me, " said the voice of the Ship's Corporal, a deep, alarming voice, calculated to inspire awe and reverence in the breast ofa new entry. Nosey turned, and then stopped irresolutely. If he were todie----

"'Ere, " he said, relenting. "Nex' o' kin--I ain't got none. But Igotter fren'. " He coloured hotly. "Miss Abel's 'er name; 14 Golder'sSquare, Bloomsbury, London. Miss J. Abel. "

This was Janie--the Grievance. It was to punish Janie that Nosey hadflung in his lot with those who go down to the sea in ships. 

Prior to this drastic step Nosey had been an errand-boy, a rathersuperior kind of errandboy, who went his rounds on a ramshackle bicyclewith a carrier fixed in front. Painted in large letters on the carrierwas the legend:

 J. HOLMES & SON, FISHMONGER ICE, ETC. , and below, in much smaller letters, "Cash on delivery. "

Janie was a general servant in a Bloomsbury boarding-house. She it waswho answered the area door when Nosey called to deliver such kippers andsmoked haddock as were destined by the gods and Mr. Holmes for theboarding-house breakfast table. 

It is hard to say in what respect Janie lit the flame of love withinNosey's breast. She was diminutive and flat-chested; her skin was sallowfrom life-long confinement in basement sculleries and the atmosphere ofthe Bloomsbury boarding-house. She had little beady black eyes, and aprint dress that didn't fit her at all well. One stocking was generallycoming down in folds over her ankle. Her hands were chapped andnubbly--pathetic as the toil-worn hands of a woman alone can be. Altogether she was just the little unlovely slavey of fiction and thedrama and everyday life in boarding-house-land. 

Yet the fishmonger's errand-boy--Orson Baines, by your leave, and captainof his soul--loved her as not even Antony loved Cleopatra. 

Janie met him every other Sunday as near three o'clock as she could getaway. The Sunday boarding-house luncheon included soup on its menu, which meant more plates to wash up than usual. They met under the thirdlamp-post on the left-hand side going towards the British Museum. 

Once a fortnight, from 8 p. M. Till 10 p. M. , Janie tasted the penultimatetriumph of womanhood. She was courted. Poor Janie!

No daughter of Eve had less of the coquette in her composition. Not fora moment did she realise the furrows that she was ploughing in Nosey'samiable soul. Other girls walked out on their Sundays. The possessionof a young man--even a fishmonger's errand-boy on twelve bob a week--wasa necessary adjunct to life itself. Of all that "walking out" implied:of love, even as it was understood in Bloomsbury basements, Janie'sanaemic little heart suspected very little; but romance was there, fluttering tattered ribbons, luring her on through the drab fog of herworkaday existence. 

It was otherwise with Nosey. His love for Janie was a very real affair, although what sowed the seeds was not apparent, and although the soil inwhich they took root and thrived--the daily interviews at the area doorand these fortnightly strolls--seemed, on the face of it, inadequate. Perhaps he owed his queer gift of constancy to the mysterious past thatgave him his baptismal name. They were both unusual. 

A certain Sunday afternoon in early autumn found them sitting side byside on a seat in a grubby London square. Janie, gripping the handle ofcook's borrowed umbrella, which she held perpendicularly before her, thetoes of her large boots turned a little inwards, was sucking a peppermintbull's-eye. 

To Nosey the hour and the place seemed propitious, and he proposed heroicmarriage. 

"Lor!" gasped Janie, staring before her at the autumn tints that werepowdering the dingy elms with gold-dust. There was mingled pride andperplexity in her tones; slowly she savoured the romantic moment to thefull, turning it over in her mind as the bull's-eye revolved in hercheek, before finally putting it from her. Then:

"I couldn't marry you, " she said gently. "You ain't got no prospecks. "Walking out with twelve bob a week was one thing; marriage quite adifferent matter. 

In the Orphanage where she had been reared from infancy the far-seeingSisters had, perhaps, not been unmindful of the possibility of thismoment. A single life of drudgery and hardship, even as a boarding-houseslavey, meant, if nothing more, meals and a roof over her head. Improvident marriage demanded, sooner or later, starvation. This onestar remained to guide her when all else of the good Sisters' teachinggrew dim in her memory. 

Prospecks--marry without and you were done. So ran Janie's philosophy. The remains of the bull's-eye faded into dissolution. 

Nosey was aghast. The perfidy of women! "You led me on!" he cried. "You bin carry in' on wiv me. . . . 'Ow could you? Pictur' palaces an'fried fish suppers an' all. " He referred to the sweets of theircourtship. "'Ow, Janie!"

Janie wept. 

After that the daily meetings at the area door were not to be thought of. Nosey flung himself off in a rage, and for two successive nightscontemplated suicide from the parapet of Westminster Bridge. The irksomeround of duties on the ramshackle bicycle became impossible. The verytraffic murmured the name of Janie in his ears. London stifled him; hewanted to get away and bury himself and his grief in new surroundings. Then his eye was caught by one of the Admiralty recruiting posters in thewindow of a Whitehall post office. It conjured up a vision of a roving, care-free life . . . Of illimitable spaces and great healing winds. . . . A life of hard living and hard drinking, when a man could forget. 

But somehow Nosey didn't forget. 

 * * * * *

The Navy received him without emotion. They cut his hair and pulled outhis teeth. They washed and clothed and fed him generously. He wastaught in a vast echoing drill-shed to recognise and respect authority, and after six months' preliminary training informed that he was aSecond-class Stoker, and as such drafted to sea in the Battle-CruiserSquadron. 

Here Nosey found himself an insignificant unit among nearly a thousandbarefooted, free-fisted, cursing, clean-shaven men, who smelt perpetuallyof soap and damp serge, and comprised the lower-deck complement of aBritish battle-cruiser. 

He worked in an electric-lit, steel tunnel, with red-hot furnaces on oneside, and the gaping mouths of coal caverns on the other. You reached itby perpendicular steel ladders descending through a web of hissing steampipes and machinery; once across greasy deck-plates and through a maze ofdimly lit alleys, you would find Nosey shovelling coal into the furnacesunder the direction of a hairy-chested individual afflicted, men said, byreligious mania, who sucked pieces of coal as an antidote to chronicthirst, and spat about him indiscriminately. 

There were eight-hour intervals in this work, during which Nosey slept orate his meals or played a mouth-organ in the lee of one of theturret-guns on deck, according to the hour of the day. He slept in ahammock slung in an electric-lit passage far below the water-line; thepassage was ten feet wide, and there were six hammocks slung abreastalong the entire length of it. 

He ate his meals in a mess with twenty other men, the mess consisting ofa deal plank covered with oilcloth for a table, and two narrower plankson either side as seats; there were shelves for crockery against theship's side. All this woodwork was scrubbed and scoured till it wasalmost as white as ivory. Other messes, identical in every respect, situated three feet apart, ranged parallel to each other as far as thesteel, enamelled bulkheads. There were twenty men in each mess, andseventeen messes on that particular mess-deck, and here the memberssimultaneously ate, slept, sang, washed their clothes, cursed andlaughed, skylarked or quarrelled all round during the waking hours oftheir watch-off. 

Still Nosey did not forget. 

 * * * * *

Then came Janie's letter from the Middlesex Hospital. Janie was in a"decline. "

The men who go down into trenches in the firing-line are, if anything, less heroic than the army of cooks and Janies who descend to spend theirlives in the basement "domestic offices" of Bloomsbury. Dark andill-ventilated in summer, gas-lit and airless throughout the foggywinter. Flight upon flight of stairs up which Janie daily toiled ahundred times before she was suffered to seek the attic she shared withcook under the slates. Overwork, lack of fresh air and recreation--allthese had told at last. 

Nosey availed himself of week-end leave from Portsmouth to journey up toLondon, and was permitted an interview with her in the big airy ward. Neither spoke much; at no time had they been great conversationalists, and now Janie, more diminutive and angular than ever, lost in the foldsof a flannel nightgown, was content to hold his hand as long as he wasallowed to remain. 

The past was ignored, or nearly so. "You didn't orter gone off likethat, " said Janie reproachfully. "But I'm glad you're a sailor. Youlooks beautiful in them clothes. An' there's prospecks in the Navy. "Poor little Janie: she had "prospecks" herself at last. 

He left the few flowers he had brought with the sister of the ward whenthe time came to leave. The nurse followed him into the corridor. "Comeand see her every visiting day you can, " she said. "It does her good andcheers her. She often speaks of you. "

Nosey returned to Portsmouth and his ship. His mess--the mess-deckitself--was agog with rumours. Had he heard the "buzz"? Nosey had not. "I bin to London to see a fren', " he explained. 

Then they told him. 

The battle-cruiser to which he belonged had been ordered to join theMediterranean Fleet. That was Monday; they were to sail for Malta onThursday. 

And Janie was dying in the Middlesex Hospital. 

 * * * * *

The next visiting day found him at Janie's bedside. But, instead of hisspick-and-span serge suit of "Number Ones" and carefully ironed bluecollar, Nosey wore a rusty suit of "civvies" (civilian clothes). Insteadof being clean-shaven, an inconsiderable moustache was feeling its waythrough his upper lip. 

"Where's your sailor clothes?" asked Janie weakly. 

Nosey looked round to reassure himself that they were not overheard. "Idone a bunk!" he whispered. 

Janie gazed at him with dismayed eyes. "Not--not deserted?"

Nosey nodded. "Don't you take on, Janie. 'S only so's I can stay nearyou. " He pressed her dry hand. "I got a barrer--whelks an' periwinkles. I've saved a bit o' money. An' now I can stay near you an' come 'erevisiting days. "

Janie was too weak to argue or expostulate. It may have been that shewas conscious of a certain amount of pride in Nosey's voluntary outlawryfor her sake; and she was glad enough to have someone to sit with her onvisiting days and tell her about the outside world she was never to seeagain. She even went back in spirit to the proud days when they walkedout together. . . . It brought balm to the cough-racked nights and theweary passage of the days. 

Then the streets echoed with the cries of paper-boys. The nurseswhispered together excitedly in their leisure moments; the doctors seemedto acquire an added briskness. Once or twice she heard the measuredtramp of feet in the streets below, as a regiment was moved from onequarters to another. 

England was at war with Germany, they told her. But the intelligence didnot interest Janie much at first. That empires should battle forsupremacy concerned her very little--till she remembered Nosey's latecalling. 

It was two days before she saw him again, and he still wore his "civvy"suit. Janie smiled as he approached the bed, and fumbled with thehalfpenny daily paper that somebody had given her to look at. 

'"Ere, " she whispered, "read that. "

Nosey bent over and read the lines indicated by the thin forefinger. 

His Majesty the King has been graciously pleased to approve of pardonsbeing granted to all deserters from the Royal Navy and Marines whosurrender themselves forthwith. 

There was silence in the ward for a moment. Far below in the streetoutside a transport wagon rumbled by. Janie braced herself for thesupreme act of her life. 

"You gotter go, " said she. 

Nosey stared at her and then back at the newspaper. "Not me!" heretorted, and took possession of her hand. 

"That's the King's pardon, " said Janie, touching the halfpenny news-sheetwith transparent fingers. "'Tain't no use you comin' 'ere no more, 'cosI won't see you. I'll ask 'em at the door not to let you in. "

Nosey knew that note of indomitable obstinacy in the weak voice. Heknew, as he sat looking down upon the fragile atom in the bed, that hecould kill her with the pressure of a finger. 

But there was no way of making Janie go back on her decision once hermind was made up. "If there's a war, you orter be fightin', " she added. "There's prospecks . . . " Her weak voice was almost inaudible, and thenurse was coming down the ward towards them. 

Nosey lifted the hot, dry little claw to his lips. "If you sez I gottergo, I'll go, " and rose to his feet. 

"'Course you gotter go. The King sez so, an' I sez so. Don't you getworritin' about me; I'll be all right when you comes 'ome wiv yer medals. . . . "

Nosey caught the nurse's eye and tiptoed out of the ward. Janie turnedher face to the Valley of the Shadow. 

VI

AN OFF-SHORE WIND

The circular rim of the fore-top took on a harder outline as the skypaled at the first hint of dawn. 

From this elevation it was possible to make out the details of theships astern, details that grew momentarily more distinct. Day, awakening, found the Battle Fleet steaming in line ahead across asmooth grey sea. The smoke from the funnels hung like a long darksmear against the pearly light of the dawn; but as the pearl changed toprimrose and the primrose to saffron, the sombre streamers dissolvedinto the mists of morning. 

Somewhere among the islands on our starboard bow a little wind awokeand brought with it the scent of heather and moist earth. It was agood smell--just such a smell as our nostrils had hungered for for manymonths--and it stirred a host of vagrant memories as it went sighingpast the halliards and shrouds. 

It was the turn of the Indiarubber Man (with whom I had shared thenight's vigil aloft) to snatch a "stretch off the land" with his backagainst the steel side of our erie [Transcriber's note: eyrie?]. Heshifted his position uneasily, and the hood of his duffel-suit fellback: his face, in the dawning, looked white and tired and unshaven. Cinders had collected in the folds of the thick garment as wind-blownsnow lies in the hollows of uneven ground. 

As I stood looking down at him an expression of annoyance passed acrosshis sleeping countenance. 

"Any old where----" he said in a clear, decisive voice. "Down arabbit-hole . . . "

And I laughed because the off-shore wind had fluttered the same page inthe book of pleasant memories that we both shared. The petulantexpression passed from his face, and he sank into deeper oblivion, holding the Thermos flask and binoculars against him like a childclasping its dolls in its sleep. 

It was just before we mobilised for the summer--a mobilisation which, had we but known it, was to last until our book of pleasant memorieswas thumbed and dog-eared and tattered with much usage--that theIndiarubber Man suggested taking a day off and having what he called a"stamp. " He fetched our ordnance map and spread it on the ward-roomtable, and we pored over it most of the evening, sucking our pipes. 

All Devon is good; and for a while the lanes had called us, windingfrom one thatched village to another between their fragrant, high-banked hedges. "Think of the little pubs . . . " said theIndiarubber Man dreamily. We thought of them, but with the vision cameone of cyclists of the grey-sweater variety, and motorists filling theair with petrol fumes and dust. 

There was the river: woodland paths skirting in the evening a world ofsilver and grey, across which bats sketched zigzag flights. Very nicein the dimpsey light, but stuffy in the daytime. So the moor had it inthe end. We would trudge the moor from north to south, never seeing asoul, and, aided by map and compass, learn the peace of a day spent offthe beaten tracks of man. 

We had been in the train some time before the Indiarubber Man made hiselectrifying discovery. 

"Where's the map?" We eyed one another severely and searched ourpockets. "We were looking at it before I went to get the tickets, " hepursued. "I gave it to you to fold up. "

So he had. I left it on the station seat. 

At a wayside station bookstall we managed to unearth an allegedreproduction of the fair face of South Devon to replace the lost map. 

The Indiarubber Man traced the writhings of several caterpillars withhis pipe-stem. "These are tors, " he explained generously. After thiswe studied the map in silence, vainly attempting to confirm ourrecollections of a course marked out the previous evening on anordnance survey map. 

We were both getting slightly confused when, with a screech of brakes, the train pulled up at the little moorside station that was ourdestination by rail. Sunlight bathed the grey buildings on theplatform and the sleepy village beyond. From the blue overhead camethe thin, sweet notes of a lark, and as we listened in the stillness weheard a faint whispering "swish" like the sound of a very distantreaper. It was the wind flowing across miles of reeds and grass andheather from the distant Atlantic. But it was not until half an hourlater, when we breasted the crest of the great hog-back that stretchedbefore us like a rampart, that we ourselves met the wind. It came outof the west, athwart the sun's rays, a steady rush of warm air; andwith it came the tang of the sea and hint of honey and new-mown haythat somehow clings to Devon moorland through all the changing seasons. 

A cluster of giant rocks piled against the sky to our left drew usmomentarily out of our course. With some difficulty we scrambled uptheir warm surfaces, where the lichen clung bleached and russet, andstood looking out across the rolling uplands of Devon. Worthieradventurers would have improved the shining hour with debate as to theorigin of this upflung heap of Nature's masonry. Had it serveddeparted Phoenicians as an altar? Heaven and the archaeologists aloneknew. 

To the northward the patchwork of plough and green corn, covert andhamlet commenced at the edge of the railway and stretched undulatingover hill and dale to where a grey smudge proclaimed the sea. 

South lay the moor, inscrutable and mysterious, dotted with themonuments of a people forgotten before walls ringed the seven hills ofRome. The outlines of tors, ever softening in the distance, led theeye from rugged crest to misty beacon till, forty miles away, theydissolved into the same grey haze. 

The Indiarubber Man pointed a lean, prophetic forefinger to the rollingsouth. "There's Wheatwood, " he said. "Come on. " And so, shoulderingour coats, with the hot sunlight on our right cheeks and the day beforeus, we started across Dartmoor. 

For nearly two hours the tor from which we had started watched withfriendly reassurance over intervening hills; then it dipped out ofsight, and we were conscious of a sudden loneliness in a world ofenigmatic hut-circles, peopled by sheep and peewits. We were workingacross a piece of ground intersected by peat-cuttings, and after halfan hour of it the Indiarubber Man fished out the map and compass fromhis pocket. 

"There ought to be a clump of trees, a hut-circle, and a Roman roadknocking about somewhere. Can you see anything of them?"

I searched the landscape through glasses from my recumbent position inthe heather, but prolonged scrutiny failed to reveal a single tree, norwas the Roman road startlingly obvious in the trackless waste. Our maphad proved too clever for us. In the circumstances there was only onething to be done. With awful calm we folded the sheet, tore it intolittle pieces, and hid them in a rabbit-hole. 

For about five miles after that we kept along a promontory thatshouldered its way across an undulating plain, ringed in the distanceby purple hills; then we sighted our distant landmark--a conicalbeacon--that we had been steering for. We were descending, thigh-deepin bracken, when the wind bore down to us from a dot against theskyline of a ridge the tiniest of thin whistles. A few minutes later asheep-dog raced past in the direction of a cluster of white specks. For a while we watched it, and each lithe, effortless bound, as itpassed upon its quest, struck a responsive chord within us--we whofloundered clumsily among the boulders in our path. 

But, for all this momentary exhilaration, it seemed a long time laterthat we struck the source of the burn which would in time guide us toour half-way halting place. To us, who had been nurtured on its broadbosom, [1] there was something almost pathetic--as in meeting an oldnurse in much reduced circumstances--about this trickle among the peatand moss. Lower down, however, it widened, and the water poured overgranite boulders, with a bell-like contralto note, into a succession ofamber pools. 

There we shed our few garments on the bank, and the moments thatfollowed, from the first exultant thrill as the water effervesced overour bodies till we crawled out dripping to dry in the wind and sun, seemed to hold only gratitude--an immense undefined gratitude to thePower that held all life. At its heels came hunger, wonderfully welldefined. 

Lower down, where the road that stretches like a white ribbon over thebosom of the moor crosses the river, there is an inn. I will not nameit: writers of poems and guide-books--worthier penmen all--have donethat. Besides, quite enough people go there as it is. We dropped, viaa kine-scented yard and over a seven-foot bank, into the road abreastthe inn door, and here a brake, freighted with tourist folk, brought ussuddenly back to the conventions that everyday life demands. 

True, we were never fain to cling to these; but, standing there on theKing's high-road, clad in football knickers and thin jerseys, sun-burntand dishevelled, we were conscious of a sudden immense embarrassment. And, in sooth, had we dropped from the skies or been escaping from thegrey prison not far distant, the tenants of the brake could hardly havebeen less merciful in their scrutiny or comments. 

After the clean wind of the moor, the taint of the last meal andover-clad fellow-beings seemed to cling unpleasantly to thelow-ceilinged room whither we fled, and I do not think we breathedcomfortably again till we had paid our bill and returned to thesunlight. Before leaving we inquired the time, and learned it wasnearly four o'clock. 

One ought to "know the time, " it seems, among men's haunts; but, onceout of sight of these, it suffices, surely, to eat when hungry, sleepwhen tired, roam as long as daylight and legs will let one--in fine, toshare with the shaggy ponies and browsing sheep a lofty disregard forall artificial divisions of the earth's journey through space. And ourjoint watch happened at the time to be undergoing repairs in Plymouth. 

To follow the ramifications of a road gives one no lasting impressionof the surrounding country, but directly a wanderer has to depend onlandmarks as a guide, all his powers of observation quicken. Oneragged hill-top guided us to another, across valleys scored with theworkings of forgotten tin-mines. A brook, crooning its queer, independent moor-song between banks of peat, rambled beside us for sometime. Then, as if wearying of our company, it turned abruptly and waslost to view; in the summer stillness of late afternoon we heard itbabbling on long after our ways separated. 

If the truth be known, I suspect it deemed us dullish dogs. But wewere tiring--not with the jaded weariness begotten of hard roads, whenthe spine aches and knees stiffen; no, a comfortable lassitude wasslackening our joints and bringing thoughts of warm baths and supper. However, our shadows, valiant fellows, swung along before us across therusty bracken with a cheerful constancy, and, encouraged by theirever-lengthening strides and by the solitude, we even found heart tolift our voices in song. Now and again small birds fled upwards withshrill twitters at our approach, and settled again to resume theirinterrupted suppers; but after a while they left for their roosts inthe rowans and sycamores to the south, and rabbits began to showthemselves in the open spaces among the furze. As if reluctantly, theperfect day drew to its close. 

We raced up the flank of a long ridge to keep the setting sun in view, reaching the crest as it dipped to meet a ragged tor, and sank in agolden glow. A little wind, like a tired sigh, ruffled the tops of theheather, swayed the grass an instant, and was gone. 

"Ah-h-h!" breathed the Indiarubber Man in the stillness. 

A thousand feet below us smoke was curling from the thickly woodedvalley. It was five miles away, but somewhere amid those trees menbrewed and women baked. 

"Come on, " he added tensely. "Beer!"

As we descended into the lowlands a widening circle of night wasstealing up into the sky--the blue-grey and purple of a pigeon'sbreast. A single star appeared in the western sky, intensifying thepeace of the silent moor behind us. Stumbling through twilit woods andacross fields of young barley, we met a great dog-fox _en route_ forsomeone's poultry-run. He bared his teeth with angry effrontery as hesheered off and gave us a wide berth across the darkening fields. Doubtless he claimed his supremacy of hour and place, as did thesheep-dog that passed us so joyously earlier in the day. And, afterall, what were we but interlopers from a lower plane!

The thirty-odd miles of our ramble reeled up like a tape-measure as wereached the lane, splashed with moonlight, that led us to the village. The gateway to every field held a pair of lovers whispering among theshadows: yet inexplicably they seemed an adjunct of their surroundingsand the faintly bewildering night-scents. A dog sitting at the gate ofa cottage uttered a short bark as we neared his domain; then, with aqueer grumbling whimper, he came to us across the dust, and perhapsbecause--as far as is given to man in his imperfections--we had notwittingly done evil that day, he slobbered at our hands. 

In the flagged and wainscotted parlour of the village inn a childbrought us bread and cheese and froth-crested mugs of beer. While weate and drank, she watched us with tranquil interest in violet-colouredeyes that foretold a sleepless night for some bucolic swain in years tocome. 

The Indiarubber Man finished his last draught and stood up with amighty sigh to loosen his belt. Then, bending down, he took thechild's flower-like face between his hands:

"'Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, '" he said gravely. Beer was ever prone to lend a certain smack of Scripture to his remarks. 

"Surt'nly, " said the little maid, all uncomprehending, and ran out tofetch our reckoning. 

 * * * * *

The Thermos flask slid with a clatter on to the steel deck of the top, and the Indiarubber Man opened his eyes. He yawned and stretchedhimself and rose stiffly to his feet. 

The first rays of the sun were rising out of the sea. "Hai-yah!" Heyawned. "Another bloomin' day. . . . I was dreaming . . . About . . . Blowed if I can remember what I was dreaming about. " He adjusted thefocus of his glasses and stared out across the North Sea. "I wonder ifthey're coming out to-day. "

It was the two hundred and seventy-third morning we had wondered that. 

[1] The River Dart. 

VII

THE DAY

Although it all happened in that dim, remote period of time "Before theWar, " Torps and the First Lieutenant, the Indiarubber Man (who was theLieutenant for Physical Training Duties), the Junior Watchkeeper, andothers who participated, long afterwards referred to it as "The Day. "

Since then they have seen their own gunfire sink an enemy's ship as awell-flung brick disposes of an empty tin on the surface of a pond. The after twelve-inch guns, astride whose muzzles David and Frecklesonce soared to the giddy stars, have hurled instantaneous and awfuldeath across leagues of the North Sea. The X-ray apparatus, by theagency of which Cornelius James desired to see right through his own"tummy, " has enabled the Fleet Surgeon to pick fragments of steel outof tortured bodies, as a conjurer takes things out of a hat. Theafter-cabin, that had witnessed so many informal tea-and-muffinparties, has been an ether-reeking hospital. 

Yet these memories grew blurred in time, as mercifully such memoriesdo. It was another and more fragrant one that sweetened the grimwinter vigil in the North, when every smudge of smoke on the horizonmight have been the herald of Armageddon. They were yet to see men dieby scores in the shambles of a wrecked battery, by hundreds on theshell-torn decks of a ship that sank, fighting gallantly to the last. And the recollection of what I am about to relate doubtless suppliedsufficient answer to the question that at such times assails the mindsof men. 

Two who helped in that unforgettable good-night scene on the aft-deckwere destined to add their names to the Roll of Britain's Honour. Itis not too much to hope that the echo of children's merriment guidedtheir footsteps through that dark Valley of the Shadow to the peaks ofEternal Laughter which lie beyond. 

 * * * * *

It all started during one of those informal tea-parties the Skipper'sMissus sometimes held in the after-cabin. They were delightfulaffairs. You needn't accept the Invitation if you didn't want to;there was no necessity to put on your best monkey-jacket if you did. You were just told to "blow in" if you wanted some tea, and then youmade your own toast, and there was China tea, in a big blue-and-whitepot, that scented the whole cabin. 

The Skipper's Missus sat by the fire, with her hands linked round herknees in her habitually graceful and oddly characteristic attitude;Torps and Jess, those gentle philosophers, occupied the chintz-coveredsettee; the A. P. Sat on the hearth-rug, cross-legged like a tailor, sothat he could toast and consume the maximum number of muffins with theminimum amount of exertion; the Junior Watchkeeper, who by his ownadmission "went all the bundle on his tea, " and the Indiarubber Man, who was clumsy with a tea-cup, shared the table and a jam-pot, and satmunching, tranquil-eyed, like a pair of oxen in a stall. 

The Captain and the First Lieutenant were rummaging through the drawersof the knee-hole table in search of an ancient recipe of the former'sfor manufacturing varnish of a peculiar excellence wherewith tobeautify the corticene on the aft-deck. 

"How are the children?" asked the Torpedo Lieutenant, helping himselfto milk and Jess to a lump of sugar. "Out of quarantine yet?"

"Yes, " replied the youthful mother of Georgina, Jane, and CorneliusJames. "At last, poor things! Christmas is such a wretched time tohave measles. No parties, no Christmas-tree----"

The A. P. Looked up from the absorbing task of buttering a muffin to hissatisfaction. "D'you remember the Christmas when you all came onboard--wasn't it a rag? I broke my glasses because I was a tiger. Iwas that fierce. "

"And I was chased by the dockyard police all the way from the AdmiralSuperintendent's garden with a young fir-tree under my arm. We had itfor a Christmas-tree in the wardroom. Do you remember?"

They were all old friends, you see, and had served two commissions insuccession with this Captain. 

"Isn't it rather hard on the _Chee-si's_?" asked Torps, "being done outof their parties--no, Jess, three lumps are considered quite enough forlittle dogs to consume at one sitting. "

The Skipper's Missus looked across the cabin at her husband: "Tim, yourtea's getting cold. Why shouldn't we have a children's party on boardone day next week? It isn't too late, is it?"

"Yes, sir, " chimed in the Indiarubber Man. "A _pukka_ children'sparty, with wind-sails for them to slither down and a merry-go-round onthe after-capstan?"

The Captain drank his tea thoughtfully; his blue eyes twinkled. "Letus have a definition of _children_, Standish. I seem to remember acertain bridesmaid at the Gunnery Lieutenant's wedding of what Ibelieve is technically called the 'flapper' age----"

"Quite right, sir, " cut in the Torpedo Lieutenant. "Our lives were amisery for weeks afterwards. He burbled about 'shy flowerets' in hissleep, sir----"

The Indiarubber Man blushed hotly. "Not 't'll, sir. They're talkingrot. She thought I was ninety, and daft at that. They always do, " headded sighing, the sigh of a sore heart that motley traditionallycovers. 

"I propose that we have no one older than Georgina or younger thanCornelius James, " suggested the Junior Watchkeeper. "That limits theages to between ten and seven, and then I think Standish's susceptibleheart would be out of danger. "

"How many children do you propose to turn loose all over the ship?"inquired the First Lieutenant dourly. "No one seems to have taken mypaint-work into consideration. It's all new this week. "

The Skipper's Missus laughed softly. "We were so concerned about Mr. Standish's heart, Mr. Hornby, that we quite forgot your paint-work. Couldn't it be all covered up just for this once? Besides, they aresuch tiny children . . . "

There are many skippers' missuses, but only one mother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James. 

The First Lieutenant capitulated. 

"I vote we don't have any grown-ups, either, " contributed the JuniorWatchkeeper, "except ourselves. Mothers and nurses always spoilchildren's parties. "

The mother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James wrung her hands inmock dismay. "Oh, but mayn't I come? I promise not to spoilanything--I love parties so!"

The A. P. Rushed in where an angel might have been excused forfaltering. "Glegg means that you don't count as a grown-up at achildren's party, " he explained naively, regarding the Skipper's Missusthrough his glasses with dog-like devotion. 

She laughed merrily. "You pay a pretty compliment, Mr. Gerrard!"

"Double-O" Gerrard reddened and lapsed into bashful silence. 

"It is agreed, then. We are to have a children's party, and I maycome. Won't the children be excited!"

"Torps, what are you going to do with them, " asked the FirstLieutenant, "besides breaking their necks by pushing them down thewindsails?" He spoke without bitterness, but as a man who had in hisyouth embraced cynicism as a refuge and found the pose easier to retainthan to discard. 

The Torpedo Lieutenant regarded him severely. "It's no good adoptingthis tone of lofty detachment, Number One. You're going to do most ofthe entertaining, besides keeping my grey hairs company. "

The First Lieutenant laughed, a sad, hard laugh without any laughter init. "I don't amuse children, I'm afraid. In fact, I frighten them. They don't like my face. No, no----"

"Mr. Hornby, " interposed the Skipper's Missus reproachfully, "thatisn't quite true, is it? You know Jane prays for you nightly, andCorney wouldn't for worlds sleep without that wooden semaphore you madehim----"

"I think Hornby would make an admirable Father Neptune, " said theCaptain, considering him mischievously, "with a tow wig and beard----"

"And my green bath kimono, " supplemented the A. P. "I bought it atNagasaki, in the bazaar. It's got green dragons all over it----" Hemet the First Lieutenant's eye and lapsed into silence again. 

"Yes! Yes! And oyster-shells sewn all over it, and seaweedtrailing . . . " The Skipper's Missus clapped her hands. "Anddistribute presents after tea. Oh, Mr. Hornby, _wouldn't_ that belovely!"

The First Lieutenant took no further part in the discussion. But latethat night he was observed to select a volume of the "EncyclopaediaBritannica" (L-N) from the wardroom library, and retire with it to hiscabin. His classical education had been scanty, and left him in somedoubt as to what might be expected of the son of Saturn and Rhea at achildren's party. 

2

"I doubt if any of 'em'll face it, " said the First Lieutenanthopefully, when The Day arrived. "There's a nasty lop on, and theglass is tumbling down as if the bottom had dropped out. It's going toblow a hurricane before midnight. Anyhow, they'll all be sick comingoff. "

The Torpedo Lieutenant was descending the ladder to the picket-boat. "Bunje and I are going in to look after them. It's too late to put itoff now. " He glanced at the threatening horizon. "They'll be all snugonce we get them on board, and this'll all blow over before tea-time. "

Off went the steamboats, the Torpedo Lieutenant in the picket-boat andthe Indiarubber Man in the steam pinnace, and a tremor of excitementran through the little cluster of children gathering at the jetty stepsashore. 

"It's awfully rough outside the harbour, " announced Cornelius James, submitting impatiently to his nurse's inexplicable manipulation of themuffler round his neck. "I'm never sick, though, " he confided to asmall and rather frightened-looking mite of a girl who clung to hernurse's hand and looked out to the distant ship with some trepidationin her blue eyes. "My daddy's a Captain, " continued Cornelius James;"and I'm _never_ sick--are you?"

She nodded her fair head. "Yeth, " she lisped sadly. 

"P'r'aps your daddy isn't a Captain, " conceded Cornelius Jamesmagnificently. 

The maiden shook her head. "My daddy's an Admiral, " was the slightlydisconcerting reply. 

"I shall steer the boat, " asserted Cornelius James presently, by way ofrestoring his shaken prestige. 

"Oh, Corney, you can't, " said Jane. "Casey always lets Georgie steerfather's galley--you know he does. You're only saying that to showoff. "

"'M not, " retorted Cornelius James. "I'm a boy: girls can't steerboats. 'Sides, Georgie'll be sick. "

"Oh, I hope there'll be a band and dancing, " said Georgina rapturously. 

"That's all you girls think about, " snorted a young gentleman of abouther own age, with deep scorn. "_I_ hope there'll be a shootinggallery, an' those ras'berry puffs with cream on top. . . . " His eyefollowed the pitching steamboats, fast drawing near. "Anyhow, I hopethere'll be a shooting gallery. . . . I say, it's rather rough, isn'tit?"

The children, cloaked and muffled in their wraps, watched the boatsbuffet their way shoreward in clouds of spray. The parting injunctionsof nurses and governesses fell on deaf ears. How could anyone beexpected to listen to prompted rigmaroles about "bread and butterbefore cake" and "don't forget to say thank you for asking me" with theprospect of this brave adventure drawing so near?

Georgina, standing on tip-toe with excitement, suddenly emitted ashrill squeal of emotion. "Oh! there's Mr. Mainwaring in the firstboat!"

"Who's Mr. Mainwaring?" inquired a small girl with a white bow over oneear, secretly impressed by Georgina's obvious familiarity with theinspiring figure in the stern sheets of the picket-boat. 

"_Dear_ Mr. Mainwaring!" repeated Georgina under her breath, gazingrapturously at her idol. 

White Bow repeated her query. 

"He's--he's Mr. Mainwaring, " replied Georgina. "My Mr. Mainwaring. "Which is about as much information as any young woman may reasonably beexpected to give another who betrays too lively an interest in herbeloved. 

The Torpedo Lieutenant waved his arm in a gesture of indiscriminategreeting, and the children responded with a fluttering of hands anddancing eyes. The steam pinnace was following hard in the wake of thepicket-boat. 

Jane, with the far-seeing eye of love, recognised the occupantinstantly. "There's Mr. Standish, " she said. "_My_ Mr. Standish!"

The nurse of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James turned to theProvidence that brooded over a small boy with a freckled face. "Didyou ever hear such children?" she asked in an aside. "_Her_ Mr. Standish! That's the way they goes on all day!"

The other nodded. "Mine's like that, too; only it's our ship'sSergeant of Marines with him. " Master Freckles's choice in the matterof an idol had evidently not lacked the wise guidance of his nurse. 

The boats swung alongside in the calm waters of the basin. The TorpedoLieutenant handed his freight of frills and furbelows to the Coxswain'soutstretched arms. The small boys to a man disdained the helping hand, but scrambled with fine independence into the stern sheets. 

"Sit still a minute. " The Indiarubber Man counted. ". . . Eight--twelve! Hallo! Six absentees---- No, Corney, you can't steer, because I'm going to clap you all below hatches the moment we getoutside. " He raised his voice, hailing the picket-boat. "All right, Torps?" The Torpedo Lieutenant signified that they were all aboard thelugger, and off they went. 

The nurses assembled on the end of the jetty waved their handkerchiefswith valedictory gestures; the wind caught their shrill farewells andtossed them contemptuously to where the gulls wheeled far overhead. 

"My! Isn't it blowing!" said the small boy in freckles, indifferent tohis nurse's lamentations of farewell. "Look at Nannie's skirts, like aballoon. . . . "

"Yes, " agreed the Torpedo Lieutenant gravely. "It's what's called atyphoon. I've only seen one worse, and that was the day I sailed inpursuit of Bill Blubbernose, the Bargee Buccaneer. "

Georgina cast him a glance of passionate credence. 

"Oh!" gasped Freckles, "have you really chased pirates?" The TorpedoLieutenant nodded. A certain three weeks spent in an open cutter offthe coast of Zanzibar as a midshipman still remained a vividrecollection. 

"Tell us about it, " said the children, and snuggled closer into theshelter of the Torpedo Lieutenant's long arms. 

The steamboats drew near the ship, and in the reeling stern-sheets ofthe steam-pinnace the Indiarubber Man stood holding two small figuresby the collars--two small figures whose heads projected far beyond thelee gunwale. They were Cornelius James and the young gentleman whosevaliant soul had yearned for shooting galleries and eke raspberrypuffs. And, horror of horrors! the little girls were laughing. 

The picket-boat had no casualties to report, and as she went plungingalongside, the Junior Watchkeeper (in sea-boots at the bottom of theladder) heard the Torpedo Lieutenant say:

"We cut their noses off and nailed them to the flying jibboom. "

"And what happened then?" gasped the enthralled Freckles as he waspicked up and hoisted over the rail on to the spray-splashed ladder. 

"And they all lived happily ever afterwards, " murmured the TorpedoLieutenant absently. "Come on, who's next? One, two, three--on thenext wave. _Hup_ you go!"

At the top of the ladder to greet each small guest stood the mother ofGeorgina, Jane, and Cornelius James. She had lunched on board with herhusband and had spent the early part of the afternoon fashioning agarment for Father Neptune--

 "That the feast might be more joyous, That the time might pass more gaily, And the guests be more contented, "

quoted the First Lieutenant with his twisted smile, as he tried it on. 

The quarterdeck had been closed in with an awning and side curtains ofcanvas that made all within as snug as any nursery. The deck had beendusted with French chalk; bright-coloured flags draped the canvaswalls; the band was whimpering to start. 

Cornelius James and his fellow sufferer were not long in recoveringfrom their indisposition; a glass of milk and biscuits soon restoredmatters to the normal, and together they sallied forth to sample thejoys that had been prepared for them. 

There were windsails stretched from the after-bridge to mattresses onthe quarter-deck, down which one shot through the dizzy darkness to endin a delicious "wump" at the bottom. The after-capstan was aroundabout, with its squealing passengers suspended from capstan-bars. Each grim twelve-inch gun had a saddle strapped round the muzzle, onwhich one sat, thrilled and ecstatic, while the great guns rose slowlyto extreme elevation and descended again to mundane levels. 

There were pennies for the venturesome, to be extracted at greatpersonal risk from an electric dip; in a dark casemate a green lightshivered in a little glass tube; you placed your hand in front of it, and on a white screen a skeleton hand appeared in a manner at onceghostly and delightful. Cornelius James returned to the quarter-deckas one who had brushed elbows with the Black Arts. "But I wish I couldsee right froo my own tummy, " he confided, sighing, to the FirstLieutenant. 

The First Lieutenant, however, was rather _distrait_; he glancedconstantly upwards at the bellying awning overhead and then walked tothe gangway to look out upon the tumbling grey sea and lowering sky. Once or twice he conferred with a distinguished-looking gentleman whohad not joined in the revels, but, carrying a telescope and wearing asword-belt, remained aloof with a rather worried expression. This wasthe Officer of the Watch. 

"We'll furl it while they're having tea, " said the First Lieutenant. "But how the deuce they're going to get ashore the Lord knows. I'llhave to hoist in the boats if it gets any worse. Keep an eye on thecompass and see we aren't dragging. " The Captain came across the deck. 

"You must furl the awning, Hornby; we're in for a blow. " He lookedround regretfully at the laughing throng of youngsters. 

"Yes, sir. And I think we ought to send the children ashore whilethere's still time. " As he spoke a wave struck the bottom of theaccommodation ladder and broke in a great cloud of spray. 

"Too late now, I'm afraid. They'll have to stay till it moderates. The wind has backed suddenly. Get steam on the boat-hoist and hoist inthe boats. You'd better top-up the ladders. Pretty kettle of fish, with my wife and all these children on board. "

3

Tea had passed into the limbo of things enjoyed, if not forgotten, andthe guests had gathered in the after-cabin. "Children!" cried themother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James, "a visitor has come onboard to see you!" As she spoke, a gaunt apparition appeared in thedoorway. He wore a gilt paper crown, and was dressed in a robe of thebrightest green. Seaweed hung in festoons from his head and shoulders, oyster-shells clashed as he walked; in one hand he carried a trident, and on his back a heavy pannier. His legs were encased in mightyboots, a shaggy beard hung down over his chest; his eyes, sombre andunsmiling, roved over the assembled children. 

There was a sudden silence: then the small girl with the white bow overone ear burst into tears. "Boo-hoo!" she cried. "Don't like nastyman, " and ran to bury her face in her hostess's gown. Her fears wereinfectious, and symptoms of a general panic ensued. "I knew it, "mumbled the visitor despairingly into his beard, "I _knew_ this wouldhappen. "

"Children, children, don't be silly--it's only Father Neptune. He'sgot presents for you all. Won't you go and say how d'you do to him!He's come all the way from the bottom of the sea. "

Cornelius James pulled himself together and advanced with outstretchedhand, as befitted the son of a post-captain on board his father's ship. "I know who you are, " he asserted stoutly. "You're Father Christmas'sbrother!"

The First Lieutenant hastily accepted this new mythology. "Quiteright, " he replied with gratitude, "quite right!" Then, as ifrealising that something further was required of him, added in a deepbass voice:

"_Fee! Fi! Fo! Fum!_"

White Bow screamed, and even Cornelius James the valiant fell back apace. Matters were beginning to look serious, when the TorpedoLieutenant appeared, rather out of breath. "Sorry we had to rush awayjust now, but we had to furl the awning----" His quick eye took in thesituation at a glance. 

"Hallo! old chap, " he cried, and smote the dejected Father Neptuneon the back. "I _am_ delighted to see you! How are all themermaids and flying-fish? Bless my soul! what have you got in thispannier--dolls . . . Lead soldiers, air-guns! I _say_----"

The children rallied round him as the children of another age must haverallied round Saint George of England. 

"Don't like nasty old man, " repeated White Bow, considering the FirstLieutenant with dewy eyes. "Nasty cross old man. " The visitor fromthe bottom of the sea fumbled irresolutely with his trident. 

"Is it really Father Christmas's own brother?" queried a small sceptic, advancing warily. 

"Of course it is! Look here, look at all the things he's brought you, "and in an undertone to the First Lieutenant, "Buck up, Number One, don't look so frightened!" They unslung the pannier and commenced tounpack the contents; the children gathered round with slowly returningconfidence, and by twos and threes the remainder of the hosts returnedfrom the upper-deck. 

"Why aren't they all wet if they've come from the bottom of the sea?"demanded Freckles the materialist. "Why isn't Father Christmas'sbrother wet?"

They looked round in vain. Father Christmas's brother had vanished. 

At that moment the Captain entered and sought his wife's eye. For afew moments they conferred in an undertone; then she laughed, thatclear confident laugh of hers with which they had shared so many oflife's perplexities. 

"Children!" she cried, "listen! Here's an adventure! We've all got tosleep on board to-night!"

"Oh, mummie!" gasped Georgina with rapture, "how _lovely_!" This was aparty, and no mistake. "Can I sleep in Mr. Mainwaring's cabin?"

"And can I sleep in Mr. Standish's cabin?" echoed Jane earnestly. "Andwe needn't go to bed for hours and hours, need we?" chimed in CorneliusJames. 

"Where are they to sleep?" asked the Captain's wife, turning to theTorpedo Lieutenant with laughter still in her eyes. "I never thoughtof that. One always has spare rooms in a house, but a battleship is sodifferent. . . . "

"It's all right, " he replied. "I've arranged all that. There are alot of people ashore: the children can use their cabins, and some of uscan sling in cots for the night. They'll have to wear ourpyjamas. . . . But I don't know about baths----"

"I think they must have plenary absolution from the tub to-night. " Sheglanced at the tiny watch at her wrist. "Now then, children, half anhour before bed time: one good romp. What shall we play?"

"Oranges and lemons, " said Georgina promptly, and seized theIndiarubber Man's hand. 

"I don't know the words, " replied her partner plaintively; "I only'knows the toon, '" as the leadsman said to the Navigator. 

So the children supplied the words to the men's bass accompaniment; theCaptain and his wife linked hands. The candle came to light them tobed; the chopper came to chop off a head; and at the end a grandtug-of-war terminated with two squealing heaps of humanity in miniaturesubsiding on top of the Young Doctor and the A. P. 

Then they played "Hunt the slipper, " at which Torps, with his longarms, greatly distinguished himself, and "Hide the thimble, " at whichDouble-O Gerrard, blinking through his glasses straight at the quarrywithout seeing it, was hopelessly disgraced. "General Post" and "Kissin the Ring" followed, and quite suddenly the mother of Georgina, Jane, and Cornelius James decreed it was time for bed, and the best game ofall began. 

The Captain's wife gathered six pairs of vasty pyjamas over her arm. "I'll take the girls all together and look after them in my husband'scabin, " she said. "We'll come along when we're ready. Will you alllook after the boys?"

Freckles fell to the lot of the Junior Watchkeeper; David, specialistin raspberry puffs, had already attached himself to the IndiarubberMan. The A. P. Found himself leading off a young gentleman with anair-gun which he earnestly desired as a bed-fellow. The remaining two, red-headed twins who had spent most of the afternoon locked in combat, were in charge of Torps and the Young Doctor. 

"Where's Cornelius James?" asked the First Lieutenant suddenly. "Whata day, what a day!" A search party was promptly instituted, and theCaptain's son at last discovered forward in the Petty Officers' mess. Here, seated on the knee of Casey, his father's coxswain, he was beingregaled with morsels of bloater, levered into his willing mouth on thepoint of a clasp knife, and washed down by copious draughts of strongtea out of a basin. 

"I went to say 'Good night' to Casey, " explained the delinquent as hewas being led back to civilisation, "and Casey said I ought to behungry after mustering my bag this afternoon. What does that mean?"

"I shouldn't listen to everything Casey tells you, " replied the FirstLieutenant severely. 

"That's what daddy says sometimes, " observed Cornelius James. "But Ilike Casey awfully. Better'n Nannie. He taught me how to make areef-knot, an' I can do semaphore--the whole alphabet . . . Nearly. "

"Here we are, " interrupted his harassed mentor, stopping before thedoor of his cabin. "This is where you've got to sleep. " He lifted hissmall charge on to the bunk. "Now then, let's get these shoesoff. . . . "

The flat echoed with the voices of children and the sounds ofexpostulation. The Marine sentry (specially selected for the post "onaccount of 'im 'avin' a way with children, " as the Sergeant-Major hadpreviously explained to the First Lieutenant) drifted to and fro on hisbeat with a smile of ecstatic enjoyment on his faithful R. M. L. I. Features. For some moments he hovered outside the Junior Watchkeeper'scabin. There were indications in the conversation drifting out throughthe curtained doorway that all was not well within. At length PrivatePhillips could contain himself no longer. "Better let me do it, sir. Bein' a married man, sir, I knows the routine, in a manner o'speakin' . . . " he said, and plunged into the fray. 

"Oh, is that you, Phillips?" the relieved voice of the JuniorWatchkeeper was heard to say. "I can't get the lead of this infernalrice-string--don't wriggle, Jim--it's rove so taut. . . . "

"What '_normous_ pyjamas, " said Cornelius James, suffering himself tobe robed in his night-attire. The operation was conducted with somedifficulty because of the sheathed sword which the visitor had found ina corner of his host's cabin and refused thereafter to be parted from. "Have you ever killed anyone with this sword?" A blustering sea brokeagainst the ship's side and splashed the glass of the scuttle withspray. "Hark at the waves outside! Can't I have the window open?Shall I say my prayers to you?"

"No, " replied the First Lieutenant, with a little wry smile, as theshadow-fingers of the might-have-been tightened momentarily round hisheart. "No, I think you'd better wait till Mummie comes. " Shrillvoices and peals of laughter sounded outside. "Here she is now. "

He stepped outside, and met the mother of Georgina, Jane, and CorneliusJames at the head of her flock. 

"Here we are, " she exclaimed, laughing. "But, oh, Mr. Hornby, ourpyjamas are so _huge_!"

"So are ours, " said the First Lieutenant, and stooped to gather intohis arms a pathetic object whose pyjama coat of many colours almosttrailed along the deck. "Cornelius James wants you to go and hear himsay his prayers. . . . I will find sleeping quarters for this one. "

Ten minutes later the last child had been swung into its unaccustomedsleeping quarters; the twins in adjacent cabins had ceased to hurlshrill defiance at each other; and silence brooded over the flat. Bythe dim light of the police-lamp Private Phillips paced noiselessly upand down on his beat, and the mother of Georgina, Jane, and CorneliusJames passed softly from cabin to cabin in that gentle meditationmothers play at bedtime. 

On her way aft to the after-cabin she met the Torpedo Lieutenant. "Thechildren all want to say 'Good night' to you, " she said softly. "Onlydon't stay long. They are so excited, and they'll never go to sleep. "Of all the men on board the Torpedo Lieutenant's heart was perhapsnearest that of a child. He tiptoed into the cabin-flat and drew thecurtain of the nearest cabin. 

"Who's in here?"

"Me, " said a small voice. Torps approached the bunk. "Who's'me'--Georgina?"

"Yes. Goodnight, Mr. Mainwaring. "

"Good night, shrimp, " replied her idol, submitting to the valedictionof two skinny arms twined tightly round his neck. "Good night, andsweet dreams. . . . No, I can't tell you stories to-night; it's muchtoo late. . . . Lie down and go to sleep. "

In the next cabin, the sound of deep breathing showed that the smalloccupant had passed into dreamland. It was Freckles. Jane remainedawake long enough to kiss his left eyebrow and was asleep the nextinstant. White Bow also was asleep, and nearly all the remainderdrowsy. Cornelius James, clasping the First Lieutenant's sword, however, remained wide-eyed. "I'm so firsty, " he complainedplaintively. 

"That's called Nemesis, my son, " said Torps, and gave him to drink outof the water-bottle. "Fank you, " said Cornelius James, and sighed, aschildren and dogs do after drinking. 

"Good night, Corney. . . . Now you must go to sleep and dream ofbloaters. Oh, aren't you really sleepy? Well, if you shut your eyestight perhaps the dustman won't see you, " and switched out the light. As he was leaving a drowsy voice again spoke out of the darkness. 

"What did the Buccaneer say when you nailed his nose to the flyingjibboom?"

"Please make me a good boy, " replied Torps, somewhat at random. 

"Oh, same's I do, " said Cornelius James. 

"More or less; isn't that sword very uncomfortable?"

But no answer came back, for Cornelius James, the hilt of the swordgrasped firmly in two small hands, had passed into the Valhalla ofChildhood. 

VIII

THE MUMMERS

The sun had not long set, and its afterglow bathed the bay in pinklight. It was a land-locked harbour, and the surface of the water heldthe reflections of the anchored Battle-fleet mirrored to its smallestdetail. So still was the evening that sounds travelled across thewater with peculiar acute distinctness. 

On the quarter-deck of the end ship of the lee line a thousand men weretrying to talk in undertones, lighting and relighting pipes, rallyingtheir friends on distant points of vantage, and humming tunes undertheir breath. The resultant sound was very much like what you wouldhear if you placed your ear against a beehive on a summer day, onlymagnified a million-fold. 

The ship's company of a super-Dreadnought, and as many men from otherships as could be accommodated on board, were gathered on the foremostpart of the quarter-deck, facing aft. They sat in rows on mess stools, they were perched astride the after-turret guns, on the shields of theturrets, clinging to rails, stanchions and superstructure, tier abovetier of men clad in night-clothing--that is to say, in blue jumper andtrousers, with the white V of the flannel showing up each seaman'sbronzed neck and face. Seamen and marines all wore their caps tiltedcomfortably on the backs of their heads, as is the custom of men ofH. M. Navy enjoying their leisure. Above them all the smoke from athousand pipes and cigarettes trembled in a blue haze on the still airof a summer evening. 

They were there to witness an impromptu sing-song--a scratch affairorganised at short notice to provide mirth and recreation for a ship'scompany badly in need of both. It was a ship's company hungry forlaughter after endless months of watching and waiting for an enemy thatwas biding his time. Their lungs ached for a rousing, full-throatedchorus ("_All_ together, lads!"). They were simply spoiling to be themost appreciative audience in the world. 

On the after-part of the quarter-deck a stage had been hurriedlyconstructed--a rude affair of planks and spars that could be disposedof in a very few moments if necessity arose--that supported a piano. Acanvas screen, stretched between two stanchions behind the stage, didduty as scenery, and afforded the performers a "green-room"--for, ofall the ritual connected with appearing upon a stage, the business of"making-up" lies nearest to the sailor's heart. Provide him with alavish supply of grease-paint, wigs, and the contents of the chaplain'sor the officer of his division's wardrobe, and the success or otherwiseof his turn, when it ultimately comes, matters little to thesailor-man. He has had his hour. 

In front of the stage, a little in advance of the men, rows of chairsand benches provided sitting accommodation for the officers. They cameup from dinner, lighting pipes and cigars, a full muster from Wardroom, Gunroom and Warrant Officers' Mess. The Captain came last, and hisappearance was the signal for a great outburst of cheering from theclosely packed audience. They had been waiting for this moment. Itgave them an opportunity of relieving their pent-up feelings; it alsogave them a chance to show the rest of the Fleet their attitude towardsthis Captain of theirs. 

It was something they were rather proud that the rest of the Fleetshould see. 

Moreover, the rest of the Fleet, leaning over the forecastle rails andsmoking its evening pipe, did see, and was none the worse for it. 

A man might have been excused if he betrayed some self-consciousness atfinding himself thus suddenly the cynosure of a thousand-odd pair ofeyes whose owners were doing their best to show him, after theirfashion, that they thought him an uncommonly fine fellow. Theatmosphere was electrical with this abrupt, boyish ebullition offeeling. Yet the Captain's face, as he took his seat, was as composedas if he were alone in the middle of his own wide moors. He lit a pipeand nodded to the Commander beside him to signify that as far as he wasconcerned the show could start as soon as they liked. 

All happy ships own a sing-song party of some sort or another. It maybe that the singers are content to sit pipe in mouth in the lee of agunshield and croon in harmony as the dusk settles down on a day's workdone. Other ships' companies are more ambitious; the canteen providesa property-box, and from a flag-decked stage the chosen performersdeclaim and clog-dance with all the circumstance of the drama. 

In days of piping peace, the Operatic and Dramatic Company of thisparticular ship had known many vicissitudes. Under the guidance of amusically inclined Ship's Steward, it had faced audiences acrossimpromptu footlights as "The Pale Pink Pierrots, " and, as such, hadachieved a meteoric distinction. But unhappily the Ship's Steward waspartial to oysters, and bought a barrelful at an auction sale ashore. On the face of things, it appeared a bargain; but the Ship's Stewardneglected to inquire too closely into the antecedents of its contents, and was duly wafted to other spheres of usefulness. 

The Chaplain, an earnest man but tone-deaf, rallied the leaderlesstroupe of musicians. During the period of his directorship they wereknown to fame as "The Musical Coons. " Musical in that each one wieldeda musical instrument with which he made bold to claim acquaintance, Coons because they blacked their faces with burnt cork and had"corner-men. " The corner-men were the weak spots in an otherwisewell-planned organisation. 

A sailor can be trusted with the integrity of a messmate's honour orthe resources of the mint, conceivably with the key of a brewerycellar, and justify the confidence reposed in him. But he cannot betrusted to be a corner-man, "gagging" with a black face and a pair ofbones. The Musical Coons dissolved after one performance, during whichthe Captain's brow grew black and the Chaplain turned faint, and anecstatic ship's company shouted itself hoarse with delirious enjoyment. 

Thereafter, for a period, the breath of rebuke and disrepute clung tothe songsters; but a ship without a sing-song party is like a dogwithout a tail. A committee of Petty Officers waited upon the FirstLieutenant, as men once proffered Cromwell the Protectorship ofEngland, lest a worse thing befell them. The First Lieutenant, with areluctance and a full sense of the responsibilities involved, that wasalso Cromwellian, finally consented to become the titular head of thesing-song party. 

He it was, then, who rose from his chair, holding a slip of paper, andfaced the great bank of faces with one hand raised to enjoin silence. The cheering redoubled. 

For perhaps fifteen seconds he stood with raised hand, then he loweredit and the smile left his eyes. His brows lowered too. The cheeringwavered, faltered, died away. They knew what Number One meant when helooked like that. 

"The first item on the programme, " he said in his clear voice, "is asong by Petty Officer Dawson, entitled, 'The Fireman's Daughter, '" andsat down again amid loud applause. 

The A. P. Rose, hopped on to the stage, and sat down at the piano thatoccupied one wing of the stage. Petty Officer Dawson, who was also theship's painter, emerged from behind the canvas screen, coyly wiping hismouth on the back of his hand. The piano tinkled out the opening barsof the song, and the concert began. 

It was a sad song; the very first verse found the fireman's daughter onher death-bed. But the tune was familiar and pleasantly mournful, and, as the piano thumped the opening bars of the refrain for the secondtime, the hundreds of waiting men took it up readily. The melodyswelled and rose, till the sadness of the theme was somehow overwhelmedby the sadness that is in the harmony of men's voices singing in theopen air. 

Petty Officer Dawson was a stout man addicted in daily life to theinexplicable habit of drying his gold-leaf brush in the few wisps ofhair Nature had left him with. His role on the occasion of a concertwas usually confined to painting the scenery. The nation being at war, and this particular concert held during the effective blockade of anenemy's empire, scenery was out of the question. So, as one of therecognised members of the sing-song party, he sang--with, be it added, considerable effect. 

"The next item, " announced the First Lieutenant (who knew his audiencebetter even than they knew him), "is a comic song entitled, 'Holdtight, Emma!' by Stoker Williams. "

This was "Taff" Williams, Stoker First-class, comedian tenth-class, andmaster of patter unintelligible (mercifully so, perhaps) to any but abluejacket audience. He was a wisp of a man with a pale, beardlessface and small features; incidentally, too, the scrum half of theship's Rugby team and the referee's terror. 

But he was more than this: he was the ship's wag, and so was greetedwith shouts and whistles of approval as he stepped on to the stageattired in the burlesque counterfeit of an airman's costume. 

Perhaps you might not have thought his song so very funny after all. It might even have struck you as vulgar, since it depended for itshumour upon gorgonzola cheese, the eldest son of the German Emperor, _mal-de-mer_, and a number of other things not considered amusing inpolite society. But the sailor's susceptibilities are peculiar: theywere there to enjoy themselves, and again and again a great gust oflaughter swept over the audience as an autumn gale convulses the treeson the outskirts of a forest. The singer's topical allusions, slyincomprehensibilities, he flung about him like bombs that burst in anunfailing roar of delight among his shipmates. No wonder they likedhim; and even the padre, who perforce had to knit his brows once ortwice, looked regretful when the last encore was over. 

Taff Williams's song was succeeded by a duet. The singers were alsocomedians, but of a different calibre. Some odd freak of Nature hadfashioned them both astoundingly alike in face and frame. They werebaldish men, short and sturdy, with sandy eyebrows and lashes of solight a colour as to be almost invisible. Their countenances wereround and expressionless, and their song, which was called "We are theBrothers Boo-Hoo!" contained little beyond reiterations of the fact, interspersed with "steps" of a solemn and intricate nature. 

Ordinarily their avocations and walks in life were separated by a widegulf. One was a Petty Officer and L. T. O. , the other a stoker. ButFame recognises no distinctions of class or calling, and circumstancesover which they had little control, the universal decree of the ship'scompany in short, drove them on to the stage to face successiveaudiences side by side as The Brothers Boo-Hoo. Neither dreamed ofappearing there without the other, although off it, save for a fewgrave rehearsals, they rarely met. They were not vocalists, but theybowed to popular demand, preserving their stolid, immobile demeanours, and sang in accents sternly and unintelligibly Gaelic. 

Their turn over, the First Lieutenant announced a juggling display byBoy Buggins. Boy Buggins appeared, very spick and span in a brand newsuit of Number Threes, and proceeded to juggle with canteen eggs, Indian clubs and mess crockery (while the caterer of his mess held hisbreath to the verge of apoplexy) in a manner quite bewildering. 

The Captain took his pipe out of his mouth and leaned towards theCommander. "Where did the lad pick up these antics?" he inquired, smiling. 

The Commander shook his head. "I don't know, sir. Probably in acircus. "

As a matter of fact, Boy Buggins did start life (as far as his memorycarried him) in grubby pink tights and spangles. But he followed inthe train of no circus; it was in front of public-houses in a districtof London where such pitches recurred with dreary frequency that he cutcapers on a strip of carpet. He visited them nightly in the company ofa stalwart individual who also wore pink tights. After eachperformance the stalwart one ordained an interval for refreshment. Ongood days he used to reach home very much refreshed indeed. 

They called it home (it was a cellar) because they slept there; and asoften as not a thin woman with tragic eyes was there waiting for them. She used to hold out her hand with a timid, shamed gesture, and therewas money in it which the man took. If he had had a good day or she abad one--it was always one or the other--the stalwart one beat thewoman, or, in his own phraseology, "put it acrost" her. But ultimatelyhe had one good day too many, or else he felt unusually stalwart, forthe woman lay motionless in the corner of the cellar where she wasflung, and wouldn't answer when he had finished kicking her. 

The police took the stalwart one away to swing for it, and "the parish"took the thin woman away in a deal box. Boy Buggins passed, via anindustrial training ship, into the Royal Navy, and earned theDistinguished Conduct Medal before this particular sing-song had passedout of the minds of those who were present at it. 

One must conclude that all these things were, as the Arabs say, on hisforehead. 

"Private Mason, R. M. L. I. --Concertina Solo!"

A great burst of laughter and cheering broke out from the sailors, andredoubled as a private of Marines, holding a concertina in his gnarledfists, walked on to the stage. Even the officers put their hands up tosmile behind them; one or two nearest the First Lieutenant leaned overand patted him on the back as if he had achieved something. 

The whole audience, officers and men, were evidently revelling in sometremendous secret reminiscence conjured up by the appearance of thisprivate of Marines. Yet, as he stood there, fingering the keys of hisinstrument, waiting for the uproar to subside, there was little abouthim to suggest high humour. He was just a thin, ratherdelicate-looking man with a grizzled moustache and dreamy eyes fixed onvacancy. His claim to notoriety, alas, lay in more than hisincomparable music. Human nature at its best is a frail thing. Buthuman nature, as typified by Private Mason, was very frail. Apart fromhis failing he was a valuable asset to the sing-song party; but, unhappily, it required all the resources and ingenuity of its promotersto keep Private Mason sober on the night of an entertainment. 

When and how he acquired the wherewithal to wreck the high hopes of thereigning stage manager was a mystery known to him alone. His messmatesdrained their tots at dinner with conscientious thoroughness, and hisinto the bargain, striving together less in the cause of temperancethan from a desire that he should for once do himself and hisconcertina (of which he was a master) justice. 

Yet, his turn announced, on the last occasion of a concert before thewar, the curtain rose upon an empty stage. The Carpenter's partyhappened upon him, as archaeologists might excavate a Sleeping Bacchusor a recumbent Budda, in the process of dismantling the stage. PrivateMason was underneath it, breathing stertorously, a smile of beatificcontentment on his worn features, his head pillowed on his concertina. 

The Fleet Surgeon subsequently missed a large-sized bottle ofeau-de-Cologne from his cabin, which he was bringing home fromGibraltar as a present for his wife. The discovery of the lossassisted him in his diagnosis of the case. 

Silence fell on the audience at length, and the concertina solo began. As has been indicated, Private Mason could play the concertina. In hisrather tremulous hands it was no longer an affair of leather and wood(or of whatever material concertinas are constructed), but a livingthing that laughed and sobbed, and shook your soul like the Keening. It became a yearning, passionate, exultant daughter of Music thatsomehow wasn't quite respectable. 

And when he had finished, and passed his hand across his moist foreheadpreparatory to retiring from the stage, they shouted for more. 

"Church bells, Nobby!" cried a hundred voices. "Garn, do the churchbells!" So he did the church bells, as the wind brings the soundacross the valley on a summer evening at home, wringing his shipmates'sentimental heartstrings to the limit of their enjoyment. 

"Strewth!" ejaculated a bearded member of the audience when the turnwas over, relighting his pipe with a hand that shook. "I 'ear Nobbyplay that at the Canteen at Malta, time Comman'er-in-Chief an' 'isStaff was there--Comman'er-in-Chief, so 'elp me, 'e sob' like a woman. . . . "

The reminiscence may not have been in strict accordance with the truth, but, even considered in the light of fiction, it was a pretty testimonyto Private Mason's art. 

The last turn of the evening came an hour later when the slightlyembarrassed Junior Watchkeeper stepped on to the stage. His appearancewas the signal for another great outburst of enthusiasm from the men. He was not perhaps more of a favourite with them than any of hisbrethren seated on the chairs below; but he was an officer, obviouslynot at ease on a concert stage, only anxious to do his bit towardsmaking the evening a success. They realised it on the instant, withthe readiness of seamen to meet their officers half-way when the latterare doing something they evidently dislike to help the common weal. They knew the Junior Watchkeeper didn't want to sing, and they caredlittle what he sang about, but they cheered him with full-throatedaffection as he stood gravely facing them, waiting for a lull. 

It is just this spirit, of which so much has been imperfectly conveyedto the layman--is, in fact, not comprehended in its entity byoutsiders--which is called for want of a better term "sympathy betweenofficers and men. " It is a bond of mutual generosity and loyalty, strong as steel, more formidable to an enemy than armaments;strengthened by monotony and a common vigil, it thrives on hardshipsshared, and endures triumphant, as countless tales shall tell, down tothe gates of Death. 

The Junior Watchkeeper's song was an old one--one that had stirred thehearts of sailors no longer even memories with his audience. He sangsimply and tunefully in the strong voice of one who knew how to pitchan order in the open air. When it was finished, he acknowledged thetumultuous applause by a stiff little bow and retreated, flushingslightly. The sing-song was over. 

The officers were rising from their chairs, the A. P. At the piano waslooking towards the Commander for permission to crash out the openingbars of the Anthem that would swing the audience as one man to itsfeet. At that moment a Signalman threaded his way through the chairsand saluted the Captain. 

The latter took the signal-pad extended to him, and read the message. Then he turned abruptly to the audience, his hand raised to commandsilence. The last of the warm glow that lingered long in the northernsummer twilight lit his strong, fine face as he faced his men. Therewas a great hush of expectancy. 

"Before we pipe down, " he said, "I want to read you a message that hasjust come from the Commander-in-Chief. 'One of our destroyers engagedand sank by gunfire two of the enemy's destroyers this afternoon. '"

A great roar of cheering greeted the curt message. The listening fleettook it up, and in the stillness of the land-locked harbour the volumeof sound reverberated, savagely and triumphantly exultant. 

The hills ashore caught the echo and tossed it sleepily to and fro. 

Then, flushed with excitement and hoarse with shouting, they sang theNational Anthem to a close. 

Altogether, it was a very noisy evening. 

IX

CHUMMY-SHIPS

The Lieutenant for Physical Training Duties came down into the Wardroomand sank into the one remaining arm-chair. 

"I must say, " he ejaculated, "the sailor is a cheerful animal. Umpteendays steaming on end without seeing any enemy--just trailing the tailof our coat about the North Sea--we come into harbour and we invite thematelots to lie on their backs on the upper-deck (minus cap and jumper)and wave their legs in the air by way of recreation. They comply withthe utmost good humour. They don't believe that it does them thesmallest good, but they know I get half-a-crown a day for watching themdo it, and they go through with it like a lot of portly gentlemenplaying 'bears' to amuse their nephews. "

The Indiarubber Man broke off and surveyed his messmates with awhimsical grey eye. The majority were assimilating the contents ofillustrated weeklies over a fortnight old; two in opposite corners ofthe settee were asleep with their caps tilted over their noses, sleeping the sleep of profound exhaustion. One member of the mess wasamusing himself with a dice-box at the table, murmuring to himself ashe rattled and threw. 

The Indiarubber Man, in no wise irritated at the general lack ofinterest in his conversation, wriggled lower in his arm-chair till heappeared to be resting on the flat of his shoulder-blades, with hischin buried in the lappels of his monkey-jacket. "I maintain, " hisamiable monologue continued, "that there's something rather touchingabout the way they flap their arms about and hop backwards andforwards, and 'span-bend' and agonise themselves with such unfailinggood humour--don't you think so, Pills?"

The Young Doctor gathered the dice again, knitting his brows. ". . . Seventy-seven, seventy-eight--that's seventy-eight times I've thrownthese infernal dice without five aces turning up. And twenty-threetimes before breakfast. How much is seventy-eight and twenty-three?Three and eight's eleven, put down one and carry one--I beg pardon, Iwasn't listening to you. Did you ask me a question?"

"I was telling you about the sailors chucking stunts on thequarter-deck. "

"I don't want to hear about the sailors: they make me tired. Thereisn't a sick man on board except one I've persuaded to malinger to keepme out of mischief. They're the healthiest collection of human beingsI've ever met in my life. "

"That's me, " retorted the Indiarubber Man modestly. "_I_ amresponsible for their glowing health. They haven't been ashorefor--how long is it?"

"Ten years it feels like, " said someone who was examining the pictorialadvertisements of an illustrated paper with absorbed interest. 

"Quite. They haven't had a run ashore for ten years--ever since thewar started, in fact; and yet, thanks to the beneficial effects ofphysical training, as laid down in the book of the words, andadministered by the underpaid Lieutenant for Physical Training Duties, the Young Doctor is enabled to sit in the mess all day and see howoften he can throw five aces. In short, he becomes a world's worker. "

"It's just _because_ they haven't been ashore for weeks and months, andin spite of the Lieutenant for Physical Training--och! No, Bunje, don't start scrapping--it's too early in the morning, and we'llwake . . . Those . . . Poor devils----Eugh! Poof! There! What did Itell you!"

The two swaying figures, after a few preliminary cannons off sideboard, arm-chair and deck stanchion, finally collapsed on to the settee. Thesleepers awakened with disgust. 

"Confound you, Bunje, you clumsy clown!" roared one. Between them theyseized the Young Doctor, who was a small man, and deposited him on thedeck. "Couldn't you see I was asleep, Pills?" demanded the otherhotly. "You've woken Peter, too. He's had--how many is it, Peter?--eight morning watches running. I've brooded over him like aProvidence from the fore-top through each weary dawning, so I ought toknow. " He yawned drowsily. "Peter saw a horn of the crescent moonsticking out of a cloud this morning, and turned out the anti-aircraftguns' crews. Thought it was the bows of a Zeppelin. Skipper wasrather peevish, wasn't he, Peter?"

The Junior Watchkeeper grunted and turned over on to his other side. "Well, you nearly opened fire on a northern diver in that flat calm atdawn the other morning. " The speaker cocked a drowsy eye on the messfrom under his cap-peak. "Silly ass vowed it was the periscope of anenemy's submarine coming to the surface. "

"Truth is, " said the Indiarubber Man, "your nerves are shattered. Pills, here's a job for you. Give the lads two-penn'orth of bromideand stop their wine and extras. In the meanwhile, " he pulled a smallbook out of his pocket, "I have here a dainty _brochure_, entitled, '_Vox Humana_--Its Ascendancy over Mere Noise'--otherwise, 'Handbookfor Physical Training. ' I may say I was partly responsible for itsproduction. "

"I believe you, faith!" said the Fleet Surgeon bitterly, over the topof the B. M. J. 

The Indiarubber Man wheeled round. "P. M. O. ! That's not the tone inwhich to speak to your Little Ray of Sunshine. It lacked _joie devivre_. " The speaker beamed on the mess. "I think we are all gettinga little mouldy, if you ask me. In short, we are not the bright boyswe were when war broke out. Supposing now--I say supposing--wecelebrated our return to harbour, and the fact that we haven't bumped amine-field, by asking our chummy-ship to dinner to-night, and givingthem a bit of a chuck-up! Which is our chummy-ship, by the way?Where's the _What Ho!_ lying?" He walked to the scuttle and stuck hishead out. "Blessed if I can tell t'other from which now we're all sobeautifully disguised. "

"We haven't got a chummy-ship, " replied the A. P. "We don't want achummy-ship. Nobody loves us. We hate each other with malignanthatred by reason of hobnailed livers. "

"And if we had, " interposed another Lieutenant gloomily, "they'd farrather stay on board their own rotten ship. They're probably gettingused to their messman by now. The sudden change of diet might befatal. " The speaker turned to the Young Doctor. "Pills, what d'youget when you change your diet sudden-like--scurvy, or something awful, don't you?"

"Hiccoughs. " The Surgeon dragged his soul from the depths of a frayed_Winning Post_ and looked up. His face brightened. "Why? Anyonehere----"

"No, no, that's all right, my merry leech. Only Bunje wants to ask the_What Ho's_ to dinner. "

"Yes, " interposed the Gunnery Lieutenant, with a sudden access ofenthusiasm. "Let's ask 'em. Where's the Navy List?" He flung atattered Navy List on the table and pored over it. 

"Hear, hear!" chimed in the Engineer Lieutenant-Commander. "Let's be aband of brothers, an' all drinks down to the mess the whole evening. "

The mess generally began to consider the project. 

"Here's the Commander, " said someone. "Casting-vote from him! D'youmind if we ask the _What Ho's_ to dinner, sir? We all feel we shouldbe better, nobler men after a heart-to-heart talk with ourchummy-ships. "

"Ask anyone you like, " replied the Commander, "as long as they don'task me to dine with them in their ship by way of revenge. "

"Carried!" exclaimed the Indiarubber Man. "'Commander, 'e sez, spokevery 'andsome!' I will now indite a brief note of invitation. Bringme pens, ink and paper. _Apportez-moi l'encre de mon cousin, aussi dupoivre, du moutard et des legumes--point à la ligne_! I got a prizefor French in the _Britannia_. "

Here the Fleet Surgeon said something in an undertone about a villageidiot, and left the mess. As he went out the First Lieutenant enteredwith an apologetic mien which everyone appeared to recogniseinstinctively. 

The Torpedo Lieutenant looked up from his book. "Oh, no, Number One, spare us for just one morning. I've got a headache already fromlistening to Bunje. "

The A. P. Threw himself into an attitude of supplication. "Number One, consider the awful consequences of your act before it's too late. Consider what it means. If you make the wardroom untenable, I shallhave to sit in the office all the morning. I might even have to dosome work!"

The First Lieutenant shook his head dourly. "The chipping party isgoing to start in the wardroom this morning. Paint's inches thick onthe bulkheads, and a shell in here would start fires all over theplace. Bunje, if you want to write letters you'd better go somewhereelse and do it. "

The Indiarubber Man thumped the blotting-paper on his freshly writtensheets and looked up with his penholder between his teeth. "I'vefinished, Number One. Admit your hired bravoes. "

As he spoke an ear-splitting fusillade of hammering commenced outside. The steel bulkheads reverberated with blows that settled down to apersistent rain of sound, deafening, nerve-shattering. 

"They've started outside, " shouted the First Lieutenant. 

A general exodus ensued, and the Indiarubber Man gathered his writingmaterials preparatory to departure. "I guessed they had, " he was heardto say. "I thought I heard a sound as it might have been someonetapping on the bulkhead. "

The watchkeepers asleep on the settee stirred in their sleep, frowned, and sank again into fathomless oblivion. 

 * * * * *

The Indiarubber Man entered the wardroom in company with the Paymasteras the corporal of the ward-room servants was putting the finishingtouches to the dinner-table. They surveyed the apartment withoutenthusiasm. 

"Considered as a banquet hall, I confess it does lack something, "observed the former. 

"There's a good deal of paint lacking from the bulkheads. Number Onehas had a field day and a half. "

The other nodded. "In the words of the song:

 'There's no carpet on the floor, And no knocker on the door, Oh, ours is a happy little home . . . '

Phillips, bring me the menu, and let's see the messman has succeeded inbeing funny without being vulgar. "

Corporal Phillips brought the menu with the air of one who connives ata felony. "Messman says, sir, it ain't all 'e'd like it to be, whatwith guests comin' and that. But I says to 'im, 'war is war, ' I says, 'an' we can't expect eggs-on-meat _entrées_, same's if it was peacetime. '"

"To-day's beautiful thought!" remarked the Indiarubber Man when thecorporal had withdrawn. "Really, Phillips has a knack of disclosinggreat truths as if they were the lightest gossip. "

The Engineer Commander came in, glancing at the clock. "Five minutesmore and the _What Ho's_ will be here. Bunje, my lad, you wereresponsible for this _entente_--have you any idea what we are going todo with them after dinner?"

"None, " replied the Indiarubber Man; "none whatever. It will come tome sudden-like. I might dress up as a bogey, and frighten you all--orshall we try table-turning? Or we could dope their liquor and sendthem all back insensible. Wouldn't that be true Oriental hospitality!They'd wake up to-morrow morning under the impression that they'd hadthe night of their lives. "

The members of the mess began to collect round the fireplace with thefunereal expressions customary whenever a mess-dinner is impending. 

"Which of the _What Ho's_ are coming?"

"Where're they going to sit?"

"Who asked them?"

"Why?"

"Are drinks going down to the mess?"

And then the door opened and the guests arrived, smiling, a little shy, as the naval officer is wont to be when he finds himself in a strangemess. 

They were relieved of caps and cloaks, and, under the mellowinginfluence of sherry and bitters, began to settle down. 

"Jolly good of you fellows to ask us to dinner, " said the FirstLieutenant, an officer with a smiling cherubic visage and a cholericblue eye. "We were getting a bit bored with our hooker. A fortnightof looking for _Der Tag_ gets a bit wearisome. D'you think the devilsare ever coming out?"

"We didn't want to ask you a bit, really, " explained one of the hosts(the advantage of having a chummy-ship is that you can insult them inyour own mess). "It's only a scheme of Bunje's for drinkingintoxicating liquor to excess at the expense of his messmates. "

The guests grinned sympathetically. As a matter of fact, most of thecompany drank little else than water during those days of strain andvigil. Frequent references to indulgence might, therefore, be regardedas comic, in a sense. 

"We thought of bringing our own chairs, " added one, "in case you'dlanded all your spare ones. "

"Yes, " chimed in a third politely. "We didn't expect to find such awealth of furniture--it's like a Model Homes Exhibition. You shouldsee our mess!"

The Gunnery Lieutenant made a gesture of deprecation. "Thewatchkeepers insist on keeping the settee to caulk on in the intervalsof hogging in their cabins. The piano was retained for the benefit ofthe Young Doctor. He can play _Die Wacht am Rhein_ with onefinger--can't you, Pills?"

The Young Doctor beamed with simple pride. "My sister's Germangoverness taught me when I was a kid, " he explained. "We have it everynight--it's the only tune I know. "

"The sideboard is to support the empty glasses of the bridge-playersafter the Padre has put down one of his celebrated 'no-trumps'hands--we had to keep the sideboard. The arm-chair is for Number Oneto sit in and beat time while his funny party chip paint off thebulkheads. " The Gunnery Lieutenant looked round. "And so on, and soon--oh, the gramophone? Bunje bu'st all the records except three, andwe're getting to know those rather well. But as you're a guest, oldthing, would you like 'Tipperary, ' Tosti's 'Good-bye, ' or 'A LittleGrey Home in the West'?"

The corporal of the ward-room servants interrupted these amenities withthe announcement that dinner was ready, and a general move was made tothe table. 

Thereafter the conversation flowed evenly and generally. It was notconfined to war. The men who make war, either afloat or ashore, do nottalk about it over-much. There are others--even in this England ofours--by tradition better qualified to do the talking, in that they seemost of the game. . . . On the whole, perhaps, more "shop" wasdiscussed than would have been the case in peace-time, but for the mostpart it eddied round much the same subjects as Wardroom conversationalways does, with the Indiarubber Man's Puck-like humour and gaymock-cynicism running through it like a whimsical pattern in anotherwise conventional design. 

War had been their trade in theory from earliest youth. They were allon nodding terms with Death. Indeed, most of the men round the longtable had looked him between the eyes already, and the obituary pagesin the Navy List had been a reminder, month by month, of others who hadlooked there too--and blinked, and closed their eyes--shipmates andfleetmates and familiar friends. 

War was the Real Thing, that was all. There was nothing about it toobsess men's minds. You might say it was the manoeuvres of 19-- allover again, with the chance of "bumping a mine" thrown in, and also theglorious certainty of ultimately seeing a twelve-inch salvo pitchexactly where the long years of preparation ordained that it should. 

A submarine specialist, whom the war caught doing exile in a "bigship, " dominated the conversation for a while with lamentations that hewas constrained to dwell in the Tents of Kedah. Two minutes of histalk having nearly convinced everyone that the sole _raison d'être_ ofthe big ship was to be sunk by submarine attack, he and his theoriespassed into a conversational siding. The watchkeepers exchanged mutualcondolences on the exasperating tactics of drift-net trawlers, notes onatmospheric conditions prevalent in the North Sea, methods of removingnocturnal cocoa-stains from the more vital portions of a chart, andother matters of interest to watchkeepers. 

The Commander and the First Lieutenant of the _What Ho's_ discussed thetraining of setters. The Young Doctor and his opposite number, andthose near them found interest in morphia syringes, ventilation ofdistributing stations, and--a section of the talk whirling into acurious backwater--the smell of cooking prevalent in the entrance hallsof Sheerness lodging-houses. . . . 

The dinner went its course: they drank, sitting (as was their privilegeand tradition), the King's health. Then the cigarettes went round, chairs turned a little sideways, the port circulated a second time. The conversation was no longer general. In pairs or by threes, according to taste, temperament or individual calling, the members ofthe mess and their guests settled down to a complacent enjoyment of themost pleasant half-hour in a battleship's long day. 

Presently, while the bridge-table was being set out, the IndiarubberMan rose from the table, and, crossing to the piano, began to vamplightly on the keys, humming under his breath. A chorus quicklygathered round. A battered Naval Song Book was propped up on themusic-rest--more from habit than necessity, since the Indiarubber Mancould not read a note of music and everybody knew the words of thetime-honoured chanties. The pianist's repertoire was limited: half adozen ding-dong chords did duty as accompaniment to "Bantry Bay, " "JohnPeel, " and "The Chinese Bumboatman" alike; but a dozen lusty voicessupplied melody enough, the singers packed like herrings round thepiano, leaning over each other's shoulders, and singing with all thestrength of their lungs. 

They exhausted the favourites at length, and the player wheeled roundon his stool. 

"What about one of the guests for a song?"

"Yes, yes!" cried several voices. "Where's Number One? He's ourMadame Patti. You ought to hear him sing '_We don't serve bread withone fish-ball!_' It's really worth it. But it takes a lot of port toget him started. How d'you feel about it, Number One?" They spokewith indulgent affection, as a nurse might persuade a bashful child toshow off before company. 

He of the choleric blue eye was still sitting at the table with one ofhis hosts. He turned in his chair, smiling grimly. 

"What's that about me? I don't want to start scrapping in a strangemess, Snatcher, but if you really _are_ looking for trouble----!"

"Don't mind us!" shouted the Indiarubber Man delightedly. "We'll putup a scrap for you in half a jiffy if you feel like a crumpledshirt-front!" He looked round the mess. "Wait till Flags and theSecretary come in from dinner with the Old Man, and we'll out thegilded Staff. They're good 'uns to scrap. "

As he spoke the door opened, and the Flag Lieutenant came in, to be metby a volley of greetings. 

"We of the cuddy, " he began in a tone of mincing severity, "are notpleased at the raucous uproar said to be coming from a mess of officersand gentlemen. We are pained. We come to lend our presence to whatmight otherwise develop into an unseemly brawl----" He helped himselfto a walnut out of a dish on the sideboard. "Here comes my colleaguethe Secretary-bird. He, too, is more grieved than angry. "

The Secretary entered warily, and intending combatants girded theirloins for battle. 

"Pouf!" he exclaimed. "What a fug!" And elevated his nose with asniff. The Fiery Cross was out. 

"Out Staff!" said the Indiarubber Man in a low voice. "Dogs of war!Out gilded popinjays!"

With a promptitude that hinted at long experience of internecinewarfare, the newcomers embraced the first maxim of war: "If you musthit, hit first, hit hard, and keep on hitting. "

Like a flash, the two members of the Personal Staff were on theIndiarubber Man. A chair went crashing, a broken glass tinkled on tothe deck, to the accompaniment of protests from the Paymaster, and, before the mess could join battle, the Indiarubber Man hurtled throughthe doorway on to the aft-deck, to pitch at the feet of a delightedMarine sentry. By the rules of the game, once through the portals ofthe mess there was no return until a truce was declared. The youngermembers of the mess rose to a man; for a moment the guests hung back. It is not in the best of form to scrap in a strange mess, except byexpress invitation. 

"Come on!" shouted the Junior Watchkeeper. "Bite 'em in the stomach!"and flung himself upon the Secretary. 

The guests waited for no second invitation. It was a battle royal, andthe Indiarubber Man, interned on the aft-deck, yelped encouragement tohis erstwhile conquerors because they were fighting valiantly againsthopeless odds. 

A Rugby International and a middle-weight boxer of some pretensions, although hampered by aiguilettes and outnumbered six to one, were noteasily disposed of. But they were ultimately overpowered, and carried, puffing with exhaustion and helpless with laughter, over the debris ofthe bridge-table, gramophone and paper-rack, out through the doorway. 

The mess, breathing heavily, adjusted its ties and collars and smoothedits dishevelled hair. The Flag Lieutenant and Secretary retired totheir cabins for more extensive repairs. The bridge-table was set uponits legs once more, the scattered cards collected. 

"Polo!" said the Indiarubber Man. "Let's play polo!"

"How d'you do that?" asked one of the ecstatic guests. At the bottomof his heart he was also wondering why the greybeards of the mess stoodall this tomfoolery without protest. He had never been shipmates withthe Indiarubber Man. 

The Indiarubber Man took an orange off the sideboard, a dessert-spoonout of a drawer, and straddled over the back of a chair. "Like this, d'you see? We generally play three a-side, but as there are six of youwe'll play double sides. " He tossed the orange on to the deck, andhopped his chair in pursuit, brandishing the dessert-spoon. 

"That's a great game, " said the First Lieutenant of the _What Ho!_ andgot him to horse. "Come on, our side, boot and saddle!"

As the game was about to start the door opened, and the Flag Lieutenantentered hurriedly. He carried a signal-pad in his hand, and there wasthat in his face that silenced the polo players and caused the bridgeplayers to lay down their hands. 

"Signal, " he said curtly. "Raise steam for full speed. Prepare forimmediate action on leaving harbour. " And was gone. 

Those who had immediate duties elsewhere stampeded out of the mess. Overhead there was a thud of feet and ropes ends and the shrilling ofpipes as the watch fell in. A Midshipman thrust his head inside thedoor of the Wardroom. "Boat's alongside, sir!" he said, and vanished. 

The First Lieutenant of the visitors flung his boat-cloak over hisshoulders. "Well, " he said, "we've had a topping evening. S'long, andthanks very much. "

Their hosts helped the departing ones into their great-coats. "Not 'tall, " they murmured politely in return. "Sorry to break up a cheeryevening. Let's hope they've really come out this time!"

The Indiarubber Man slid on to the music-stool again, put his foot onthe soft pedal, lightly touched the familiar chords, and began hummingunder his breath:

 "We don't want to lose you---- But we _think_ you ought to go . . . "

There are many ways of saying _Moriturus te saluto_. 

X

THE HIGHER CLAIM

1

All night long the wind, blowing in across the dunes from the NorthSea, had brought the sound of firing. 

At times it was hardly perceptible: a faint reverberation of the etherthat could scarcely be defined as sound; it would resolve itself into alow, continuous rumble, very much like distant thunder, that died awayand recommenced nearer and more distinct. Then the sashes of the openwindow trembled, and Margaret, who had lain awake all night, everynerve strained to listen, leaned on one elbow to stare from her bed outinto the darkness. 

She had tried not to listen. For hours she had lain without moving, with limbs tense beneath the coverings, the palms of her hands pressedagainst her ears. But imagination sped through the dark passages ofher mind, brandishing a torch, compelling her at length to listen again. 

She had no very clear idea, of course, what a naval action was like. Aconfused recollection of pictures seen in childhood only suggestedstalwart men, stripped to the waist and bare-footed, working round thesmoking guns of ships whose decks blazed up in flame to taunt the quietheavens; while the ships' scuppers ran red. 

Modern naval warfare could be nothing like that, though. 

She had only seen the results of modern warfare. Men tortured tillthey came near to forgetting their manhood; burnt, deaf, scalded, tornby splinters, blinded; she had seen them smiling under circumstancesthat thrilled her to feel they shared a common Flag. 

On the outbreak of war the training institute on the East Coast, ofwhich Margaret was the matron, had, on account of its position near thecoast and other advantages, been converted into a Naval Hospital. MissDacre, the principal, Margaret, and a few others who had alreadyqualified in nursing, were retained as Red Cross sisters, and it wasnot long before the classrooms and dormitories were occupied by verydifferent inmates from those for whom they were intended. Only themore serious cases reached these wards. The less dangerously hurtpassed by rail or hospital ship to the base hospitals in the South. 

All night long the wounded men in the long wards stirred fretfullyunder the white counterpanes, each man translating the sounds accordingto his own imagination or experience. The night-sisters moved softlyto and fro on the beeswaxed boards, smoothing tumbled pillows, adjusting a splint or a bandage, calming the bearded children whofretted because they were hopelessly "out of it. "

Towards the dawn the sounds of firing gradually grew fainter, and diedaway as the first pale bands of light appeared in the east. Thesparrows under the eaves stirred and commenced a sleepy twittering. Margaret rose as soon as objects in her room were discernible, bathedher face and hands in cold water, and stood awhile at the windowwatching the day growing over the sea and sombre sky. 

The sounds of the battle that passed away to the northward had shakenher nerves as had nothing else in all her experience. Standing thereby the open window, drinking in the indescribable freshness of thedawn, she despised herself. She, who had devoted her life to aPurpose, should be above the petty weakness of her sex. Yet the coldfear that had been her bedfellow throughout the night, and wasconcerned with neither defeat nor victory, haunted her still. 

She closed the window, lit a small spirit-lamp on a side table, and, while the kettle boiled, dressed in riding things. The earliness ofthe hour made it improbable that she would meet a soul, and yet shedressed carefully, coiling her soft hair, with its silver threads, onthe nape of her neck, fastidiously dusting riding boots, and giving abrisk rub to the single spur before she strapped it on. She wasadjusting her hard-felt hat before the glass when someone knocked atthe door. 

She turned questioningly, with hands still raised. "Come in!"

A girl was standing in the doorway; she wore a dressing-gown, andbeneath it her slim ankles peeped out of a pair of the felt slippersnurses wear at night. 

"Betty! What's the matter?"

"Did you hear the firing?"

Margaret nodded. Was the betrayal of her nerves infectious? Had itcommunicated itself to the whole staff? For a swift instant shedespised her sex--she who had devoted her life to it. "Yes. Anotherbig engagement. We shall be busy. I was going to ride down to thecliffs to see. . . . What's the matter, Betty--can't you sleep? Comein and shut the door; I'll give you a cup of tea. " She spoke in heraccustomed quiet tone, and crossed to the side table, where the kettlewas giving out little fitful puffs of steam. 

Betty closed the door and sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands inthe side pockets of her dressing-gown. Her hair was plaited loosely intwo long plaits, one of which hung down over her shoulder and somehowgave her face an added effect of extreme youth. 

Margaret handed her a cup of tea. "Drink that and run back to bed. No--hop into mine and keep warm. Haven't you slept?"

Betty drank the tea and drew the dressing-gown closer round her youngform. "I couldn't sleep. The firing . . . No, I'm quite warm, thanks. But it got on my nerves lying there waiting for it to getlight. I heard you moving, and I got up. " She passed her hand overher eyes. "After the last time I kept seeing those poor things. . . . I don't mind once we start--I don't mind the operating-table. It'swhen they come in . . . Like dumb things--trying to smile, with theirmouths all screwed up and tight. " She caught her breath halfhysterically. 

Margaret put down her cup quickly and sat down by the girl's side. "Betty! Don't talk like that. You mustn't think about it in that way. Listen----"

"It's easy to be calm when you haven't any--anybody out there in theNorth Sea belonging to you. But I've got a brother and a--and he's aGunnery Lieutenant, " ended Betty a little feebly. 

"I know, dear. But you mustn't go to pieces when we all want every bitof pluck and steadiness. We're getting used to it now, too--and I'msure your brother would like to think you were being as brave as--ashe. . . . " She turned her head and stared out of the window. Was shea hypocrite, she wondered, to try to preach to anyone the virtue ofwomanly courage when her own heart was sick with she knew not what?

Betty stood up. "I'm a fool, " she said abruptly. "Can I come withyou? Could you wait ten minutes while I put my riding things on? MissDacre said I could take her horse when I wanted to--will you wait forme, Margaret? I'll ride down to the sea with you. "

Margaret nodded and rose, too. "I'll get the horses saddled while youdress. . . . Bring some biscuits. "

She descended the broad oak stairway, crossed the hall, and opened thedoor of a little room adjoining the main entrance. It was her daysanctum--in scholastic days, the matron's sitting-room, a smallapartment, with pretty chintz-covered furniture, and roses in bowls onthe table and bookstands. Margaret unhooked a pair of field-glasseshanging on the wall, and passed out into the early morning sunlight. 

Betty joined her ten minutes later in the stables, and together theymounted and rode down the long avenue, bordered by firs, out on to theopen wold that commanded a view of the sea. 

With the dewy turf under them, they shook their impatient horses into acanter until they reached the highest point of a bluff promontory thatstretched out into the sea. Here they reined in and scanned thehorizon, side by side. 

The water was leaden-coloured, shot with coppery gleams. Below them tothe northward the little harbour of the fishing village was stirring tolife: wisps of smoke, curling from a score of chimneys, blended withthe mists of early morning. Small specks that were people began tomove about an arm of the breakwater, towards which a dinghy camestealing sluggishly from one of the anchored fishing craft. 

Without speaking, Betty abruptly raised her whip and pointed towardsthe north. A Torpedo Boat Destroyer was approaching the entrance tothe harbour, her funnels jagged with shot-holes pouring out smoke. Insilence Margaret handed the glasses to her companion. On the farhorizon there were faint columns of smoke north and east. Some weresmudges that dissolved and faded to nothing; others grew darker, andpresently resolved themselves into distant cruisers passing rapidlysouth. Margaret's horse lowered his head and began cropping the shortgrass. 

"Margaret, " said Betty suddenly, "did you ever care for anybody--a man, I mean?" To Betty's mind the thirty-five years that sat so lightly onMargaret's brow relegated such a possibility, if it ever happened, to apast infinitely remote. For a moment there was no reply. 

Margaret stretched out her hand for the glasses, and focused them onthe horizon. 

"Yes, " she said at length, quietly. The Destroyer was entering theharbour; faint confused sounds of cheering drifted up to them. 

"Why didn't you marry him? Did you send him away?"

Again a pause, and again came the low-voiced affirmative. Margaretlowered the glasses and returned them to the case slung across hershoulder. "I thought I was doing right. . . . But I was wrong. " Thenight had not been without its lesson. "He's out there. " She noddedtowards the North Sea, and as she spoke the blunt bows of a hospitalship crept round a distant headland, making towards them. Silence tellbetween them again. 

Margaret broke it. "Betty, " she said, "if the time ever comes for youto choose between the love of the man you love and--and anything elsein the wide world, don't be misled by other claims . . . By what mayseem to be higher claims. Loving and being loved are the highestresponsibilities that life holds. "

Betty turned her head and stared. "But, " she said, "if you think dutydoesn't give you the right to----"

"Love gives you all the right a woman wants, " replied Margaret, stillin the same low, sad tone. "If it's only the right to cry. . . . Ifyou forego love, you forego even that. " She gathered the reins andturned her horse. "Now we must get back to bath and dress. There's alot of work ahead of us. "

Neither spoke again as they rode back across the downs. In the filmyblue overhead a lark sang rapturously, pouring out its soul in gladness. 

 * * * * *

Margaret was in the hall when the first of the long line ofstretcher-bearers arrived. As each stretcher was brought in, a surgeonmade a brief examination of the wounded man, and he passed through oneor other of the wide doorways opening out on either side of the hall. There was a subdued murmur of voices as every moment brought a fresharrival. Two blue-jackets, who came up the steps carrying a hoodedstretcher, stood looking about them as if for orders. The surgeonswere all occupied, but, catching sight of Margaret in uniform, with thebroad red cross on her breast, the blue-jackets crossed the halltowards her and laid the stretcher at her feet, as if they had broughttheir burden all this way for her alone. 

"Second door on the left, " said Margaret. "Wait--is it a bad case?"

"Too late, I'm afraid, Sister, " said the stalwart at the head of thestretcher. "'E's died on the way up. "

"'Emmerage, Sister, " supplemented the other, anxious to display hisfamiliarity with the technicalities of her profession. "'E wouldn'ttake 'is turn to be attended to aboard of us--we was in a Destroyer, an' picked 'im up 'angin' on to a spar. Would 'ave the doctor fix up aGerman prisoner wot was bleedin' to death. Said 'e wasn't in noparticular 'urry, speakin' for 'isself. An' 'im a-bleedin' to death, too. As fine a gentleman as ever stepped. "

The other nodded, warming, sailor-like, to the hero-worship of anofficer. "That's right, Sister. 'E give 'is life for one of themGermans, you might say. "

"Is he dead?" asked Margaret in her clear, incisive tones. 

"Yes, Sister. " The speaker knelt down and turned back the hood, uncovering the face and shoulders of the motionless figure on thestretcher. 

For a moment a feeling of giddiness seized Margaret. A great blacknessseemed to close round her, shutting out the busy scene, the voices ofthe bearers, and the shuffle of their feet across the tiled hall. Witha supreme effort she mastered herself, and somehow knew she had beenwaiting for this moment, expecting it. . . . 

The man who had been kneeling rose to his feet, and the two stoodbefore her as if awaiting orders. Outside the entrance a motorambulance arrived and drew up with throbbing engine. 

"The mortuary----" she began. "No--bring him here . . . Out of allthis. " She walked across the hall and opened the door of the smallroom on the left of the entrance. The scent of roses greeted them: itwas the room from which she had fetched her glasses early in themorning. 

The two men deposited the stretcher on the floor and came out, glancingat her white face as they passed. "Shall we carry on, Sister?"

"What? . . . Oh, yes, please. "

They saluted awkwardly, and left her standing irresolute, as if dazed, in the midst of all the bustle and traffic of suffering. 

He had come back to her. Torps, who in life had never broken his word, was also faithful to it in death. 

2

The journey across the lawn to one of the seats in the shelter of theclipped hedge of evergreens was accomplished at length. 

The Indiarubber Man lowered himself with a little grimace into theseat, and laid the crutches down beside him. One leg, encased insplints and bandages, was stiffly outstretched on a stool in front ofhim; his uniform cap--a very disreputable one, with a tarnishedbadge--was perched on top of the bandages that still swathed his head. 

"Phew!" he said; "thank you. That was a bit of a Marathon, wasn't it?"He measured the distance across the lawn with a humorous eye. 

"It was very good for a first attempt, " said Betty, considering himprofessionally. "Is that leg comfortable?"

"Quite, thank you. " He leaned back and closed his eyes with aluxurious sigh. "'Pon my word, this is what I call cutting it prettyfat. Fancy my lolling here in the sun, and you . . . And you----" heopened his eyes, regarding her as she stood before him in her trim, nurse's uniform. "It's quite like a play, isn't it, where everythingcomes right in the end? Miss Betty----"

"You mustn't call me that, " said Betty primly. "I told you before. You must say 'Nurse. '"

"Can't I say 'Nurse Betty'?"

"My name is Elizabeth. If you wanted to distinguish me from othernurses you might conceivably say 'Nurse Elizabeth. ' But even that'snot necessary, as I'm the only nurse here at the moment. "

The Indiarubber Man looked cautiously round the sunlit enclosure. "True. So you are----"

"And it's time for your beef-tea, " added Betty severely, marching offin the direction of the distant wing. 

Her patient watched her slim form retreating and vanish down a greenalley. "You dear, " he said, "you dear!" He meditated awhile. "It's arum world, " he soliloquised. "Torps has gone. The Young Doc. 's gone. The Pay's gone. "

He mused awhile. "But we gave 'em an almighty hammering. And here amI, alive and kicking again. And there's Betty. . . . It's a rumworld. " He bent forward and gathered a daisy growing in the borderbeside his seat. With his bleached, rather unsteady, fingers, he beganpicking the petals from it one by one. 

"She does, she doesn't. She does, she doesn't. She doesn't, " repeatedthe Indiarubber Man in a woeful voice. 

A thrush hopped across the lawn, and paused to regard him with onebright eye. Apparently reassured, it deftly secured and swallowed aworm. 

The Indiarubber Man laughed. "Doesn't anybody love you either?" hesaid. 

Betty reappeared in the distance carrying a tray in her hands. Thethrush, as if realising that two is company and three none, flew away. 

Betty handed a cup to the invalid. "There's a piece of toast too--youmust soak it in the beef-tea, and here is a little bell. If you wantanything, or you aren't comfortable, you can ring it. "

"I see. " The Indiarubber Man gravely accepted all three gifts and laidthem on the seat beside him. "Thank you awfully. But you aren't goingaway, are you?"

"Of course I am, " said Betty. "I'm very busy. You _must_ rememberthat this is a hospital, that you're a patient and I'm a nurse. " Shemoved off sedately. 

"Miss Betty!" called the Indiarubber Man. "I mean 'Nurse. '" Bettyturned and retraced her footsteps. "Wouldn't it be awful if I wassuddenly taken very ill indeed--if I came over all of a tremble, andtried to ring the toast and soaked the bell in my beef-tea?"

"From what I've seen of you during the last six weeks, " replied Bettythe Hospital Nurse, "such a thing wouldn't surprise me a little bit. "She left him to his graceless self. 

For a while after she had gone the Indiarubber Man tried to read abook. Tiring of that, he lit a pipe and smoked it without enthusiasm. Tobacco tasted oddly flavourless and unfamiliar. Then he rememberedhis beef-tea and drank it obediently, soaking the toast as he had beenbidden. Remained the bell. For a long time he sat staring at it. 

"Much better get it over, " he said aloud. "One way or the other. "

Cautiously he looked round. No one was in sight; the windows at theback of the hospital that overlooked this secluded lawn had been thewindows of class-rooms, and were of frosted glass. With the aid of hiscrutches he got up unsteadily, and then, maintaining a precariousbalance with one crutch, he thrust the other one under the seatleverwise, and with an effort tipped it over backwards on to theflowerbed. 

This accomplished, the Indiarubber Man looked round again to convincehimself that the manoeuvre was unobserved. Reassured on this point, helowered himself down gingerly over the seat until he was lying on hisback with his legs in the air and his head in a clump of marigolds. Inthis attitude he seized the bell and rang it furiously, feebly wavinghis uninjured leg the while. 

The moments passed. From his prostrate position behind the seat he wasunable to obtain a view of the lawn, and stopped ringing the bell tolisten. He heard a faint cry in the distance, and then the flutter ofskirts. The next instant Betty was bending over him, white andbreathless. 

"Oh!" she cried, "how _did_ it happen? Did the seat tip overbackwards--are you hurt?" and kneeling beside him raised his unhallowedhead. The Indiarubber Man closed his eyes. 

"You told me to ring if I wasn't comfortable, and I wasn't a bit. Ihate the smell of marigolds too. No--please don't move; I'm verycomfortable now. " Betty looked wildly in the direction of the housefor help. 

"I heard the bell, " she said in a queer, breathless little voice, "andI just came out to look . . . And then I ran. I ought to have calledsomeone. Ring the bell--I can't move you by myself. We must haveassistance. How _did_ this happen?"

The Indiarubber Man opened his eyes. "The seat tipped over backwards. "

"But _how_?"

"It--it just tipped--as it were. "

"Will you promise to lie still for one minute while I run for help--areyou in pain?"

"No. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you a question. "

"What?" asked Betty, reaching for the bell with her disengaged hand. 

"Betty, will you marry me?"

The Indiarubber Man's bandaged head was deposited once more among themarigolds. Betty rose to her feet, astonishment and indignationjoining forces to overcome laughter within her. The resultant of allthree was something suspiciously like tears. 

"_What_? Oh, I do believe--I don't believe it was an accident atall----"

"Will you, Betty?" queried the Indiarubber Man from the depths of themarigolds. 

Voices sounded beyond the yews. A white-coated orderly appeared in thedistance, stood a moment in astonishment, and came running across thegrass towards them. 

"Quick! There's someone coming. I swear I won't be budged till youanswer. "

The orderly arrived panting. "What's up, miss, an accident?"

"Oh, " gasped Betty. "Yes!"

The Indiarubber Man suffered himself to be moved.