" He walked to the scuttle and stuck his
head out. "Blessed if I can tell t'other from which now we're all so
beautifully disguised."

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

"And if we had," interposed another Lieutenant gloomily, "they'd far
rather stay on board their own rotten ship. They're probably getting
used to their messman by now. The sudden change of diet might be
fatal." The speaker turned to the Young Doctor. "Pills, what d'you
get 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? Anyone
here----"

"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 of
enthusiasm. "Let's ask 'em. Where's the Navy List?" He flung a
tattered Navy List on the table and pored over it.

"Hear, hear!" chimed in the Engineer Lieutenant-Commander. "Let's be a
band 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'you
mind if we ask the _What Ho's_ to dinner, sir? We all feel we should
be better, nobler men after a heart-to-heart talk with our
chummy-ships."

"Ask anyone you like," replied the Commander, "as long as they don't
ask me to dine with them in their ship by way of revenge."

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

Here the Fleet Surgeon said something in an undertone about a village
idiot, and left the mess. As he went out the First Lieutenant entered
with an apologetic mien which everyone appeared to recognise
instinctively.

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

The A.P. threw himself into an attitude of supplication. "Number One,
consider the awful consequences of your act before