hoarding near the
landing place; away to the left the sloping roof of what was
unmistakably 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 a
notation on it, and handed it back: "Commander an' Officer of the
Watch, Wardroom, Gunroom, an' Warrant Officers' Mess. Smart!"

The boy flung himself down the ladder, sped aft along the fore-and-aft
bridge, turned at the shelter-deck, descended another ladder, and
brought up in the battery. Here the Commander came in view, conferring
mysteriously with the Boatswain over a length of six-inch wire hawser
that lay along the upper deck. The Boatswain, with gloom in his
countenance, was indicating a section where the strands were flattened
and the hemp "heart" protruded in a manner indicating that all was not
well with the six-inch wire hawser. In fact, it rather resembled a
snake that had been run over. The Commander was rubbing his chin
thoughtfully.

The Signal-boy hovered on the outskirts of the conference. Bitter
experience in the past had taught him not to obtrude when deep called
thus 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 the
Commander's vision, one eye cocked on his face to note the effect of
this momentous communication. He half expected that the Commander
would 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 the
Officer of the Watch.

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

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

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

The Offi