ticular sing-song had passed
out of the minds of those who were present at it.

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

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

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

The whole audience, officers and men, were evidently revelling in some
tremendous secret reminiscence conjured up by the appearance of this
private of Marines. Yet, as he stood there, fingering the keys of his
instrument, waiting for the uproar to subside, there was little about
him to suggest high humour. He was just a thin, rather
delicate-looking man with a grizzled moustache and dreamy eyes fixed on
vacancy. His claim to notoriety, alas, lay in more than his
incomparable music. Human nature at its best is a frail thing. But
human nature, as typified by Private Mason, was very frail. Apart from
his failing he was a valuable asset to the sing-song party; but,
unhappily, it required all the resources and ingenuity of its promoters
to keep Private Mason sober on the night of an entertainment.

When and how he acquired the wherewithal to wreck the high hopes of the
reigning stage manager was a mystery known to him alone. His messmates
drained their tots at dinner with conscientious thoroughness, and his
into the bargain, striving together less in the cause of temperance
than from a desire that he should for once do himself and his
concertina (of which he was a master) justice.

Yet, his turn announced, on the last occasion of a concert before the
war, the curtain rose upon an empty stage. The Carpenter's party
happened upon him, as archaeologists might excavate a Sleeping Bacchus
or a recumbent Budda, in the process of dismantling the stage. Private
Mason was underneath it, breathing stertorously, a smile of beatific
contentment on his worn features, his head pillowed on his concertina.

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

Silence fell on the audience at length, and t