Writer in the Certificate Office at the Naval Depot, where Nosey
Baines 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 to
the conclusion of the hop-picking season, the insolvency of a local
ginger-beer bottling factory, and other mysterious influences. Nosey's
parchment certificate (that document which accompanies a man from ship to
ship, and, containing all particulars relating to him, is said to be a
man's passport through life) was the nineteenth he had made out that
morning.

"Name?"

Nosey spelt it patiently.

"Religion?"

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

Nosey selected the second alternative. It sounded patriotic at all
events.

"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 this
sort 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 all
the gentler influences of the land. . . . If he were to die, even . . .

The Ship's Corporal, waiting to guide him to the New Entry Mess, touched
him on the elbow. The Writer was gathering his papers together. A
sudden wave of forlornness swept over Nosey. He wanted his dinner, and
was filled with emptiness and self-pity. The world was vast and
disinterested in him. There were evidences on all sides of an unfamiliar
and 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 of
a new entry. Nosey turned, and then stopped irresolutely. If he were to
die----

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

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

Prior to this drastic step