alley-way.

"What's that mean?" asked Doe.

"Luncheon bell, I s'pose," replied I. "Come along."

We found our way down to the huge dining saloon, which was furnished
with thirty separate tables. Looking for a place where we could
lunch together, we saw two seats next the padre, whose conversation
in the Transport Office had entertained us. We picked a route
through the other tables towards him.

"Are these two seats reserved, sir?" I asked.

Padre Monty turned a lean face towards Doe and me, and looked us up
and down.

"Yes," he said. "Reserved for you."

I smiled at so flattering a way of putting it, and, sitting down,
mumbled: "Thanks awfully."

There were two other people already at the table. One was a long and
languid young subaltern, named Jimmy Doon, who declared that he had
lost his draft of men (about eighty of them) and felt much happier
without them. He thought they were perhaps on another boat.

"Are they _officially_ on board the _Rangoon_?" asked Padre Monty.

"Officially they are," sighed Jimmy Doon, "but that's all. However,
I expect it's enough."

"Well, your draft is better off than I am," said Monty. "It at least
exists officially, whereas I'm _missing_. I haven't officially
arrived at Devonport. The War Office will probably spend months and
reams of paper (which is getting scarce) in looking for me. But I
don't suppose it matters."

"Oh, what does anything matter?" grumbled Jimmy Doon. "We shall all
be dead in a month--all my draft and you and I; and that'll save the
War Office a lot of trouble and a lot of paper." He trifled with a
piece of bread, and concluded wearily: "Besides this unseemly war
will be over in six months. The Germans will have us beaten by
then."

At this point the other passenger at the table gave us a shock by
suddenly disclosing his identity. He put a monocle in his eye,
summoned a steward, and explained:

"This is my seat at meals--_what_. Do you see, steward? And
understand, there'll be the most awful bloody row, if I'm not looked
after properly."

Major Hardy dropped the monocle on his chest and apologised to
Monty: "Sorry, padre." Then he took the menu from the steward, and,
having replaced his monocle and read down a list of no less than
fourteen courses, announced:

"Straight through, steward--_what_."

The steward seemed a trifle taken aback, but concealed his emotion
and passed the menu to Jimmy Doon. Mr. Doon, it was clear, found in
this choo