he
was constrained to dwell in the Tents of Kedah. Two minutes of his
talk having nearly convinced everyone that the sole _raison d'etre_ of
the big ship was to be sunk by submarine attack, he and his theories
passed into a conversational siding. The watchkeepers exchanged mutual
condolences on the exasperating tactics of drift-net trawlers, notes on
atmospheric conditions prevalent in the North Sea, methods of removing
nocturnal cocoa-stains from the more vital portions of a chart, and
other matters of interest to watchkeepers.

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

The dinner went its course: they drank, sitting (as was their privilege
and 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 of
the mess and their guests settled down to a complacent enjoyment of the
most pleasant half-hour in a battleship's long day.

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

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

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

"Yes, yes!" cried several voices. "Where's Number One? He's our
Madame Patti. You ought to hear him sing '_We don't serve bread with
one fish-ball!_' It's real