creating some amusement in his audience.

"Well, padre," the Staff Officer was saying, as he handed back
Monty's papers, "I'm at a loss what to do with you."

"The Army always is at a loss what to do with padres," rejoined
Monty pleasantly, as he took the papers and placed them in a pocket.
"However, you needn't worry, because, having got so far, I'm going
on this blooming boat."

"But I've no official intimation of your embarking on the
_Rangoon_."

Padre Monty picked up a square leather case and, moving to the door,
said:

"No, but you've ocular demonstration of it."

And he was gone.

When our turn came, the Staff Officer consulted a list of names
before him and said:

"The _Rangoon_. She's at the quay opposite the Great Crane."

The _Rangoon_, as we drew near, showed herself to be a splendid
liner, painted from funnel to keel the uniform dull-black of a
transport. All over and about this great black thing scurried and
swarmed khaki figures, busy in the work of embarkation. We rushed up
the long gangway, and pleaded with the Embarkation Officer for a
two-berth cabin to ourselves. The gentleman damned us most heartily,
and said: "Take No. 54." We hurried away to the State Rooms and
flung our kit triumphantly on to the bunks of Cabin 54.

It was at this moment that a mysterious occupant of Cabin 55, next
door, who had been singing "A Life on the Ocean Wave," came to the
end of his song and roared: "Steward!"; after which he commenced to
whistle "The Death of Nelson." We heard the steps of the steward
pass along the alley-way and enter 55.

"Yes, sir?" his voice inquired.

But our neighbour was not to be interrupted in his tune. He whistled
it to its last note, and then said:

"I say, steward, I'm sure you're not at all a damnable fellow, so I
want you to understand early that you'll get into awful trouble if
I'm not looked after properly--_-what_. There'll be the most
deplorable row if I'm not looked after properly."

"Well, I'm hanged!" whispered Doe. "I'm going to see who the
merchant is." He disappeared; and was back in ten seconds,
muttering, "Good Lord, Rupert, it's a middle-aged major with a
monocle; and its kit's marked 'Hardy.'"

And, while we were wondering at such spirits in a major, and in one
who was both middle-aged and monocled, two bells sounded from the
bows, two more answered like an echo from the boat-deck above, and
Major Hardy was heard departing with unbecoming haste down the