selves in their
whites. And the mention of their deck-flannels reminds me, strangely
enough, of Monty's daily masses. It was evident from the attendance
at these quiet little services that he had been busy persuading
other young officers to see "how it worked."

Every morning the smoking room was equipped with a little altar that
supported two lighted candles. And to this chapel there wandered,
morning after morning, stray and rather shy young subalterns, who
knelt "beneath the shadow," occupied with their own thoughts, while
Calvary's ancient sacrifice was acted before God.

Monty had formed a dozen subalterns into a guild of servers. And on
these sun-baked mornings he would insist that his servers should
kneel at their place beside the altar in their white sporting
attire. "_His_ Mass," said he, "was meant to be mixed up with the
week-day play."

It was all quiet--in fact, ever so quiet. Outside on the deck there
would be noises, and in the alley-way there would be bangings of
cabin-doors, and voices calling for the bath steward. But these
things only intensified the quiet of the smoking room. Monty would
keep his voice very low, loud enough to be heard by those who
wished to follow him, and soft enough not to interrupt those who
preferred to pursue their private devotions.

Whether he was right in all that he did and taught, or was only a
joyous rebel, better theologians than I must determine. He was at
least right in this: the attraction of that early morning service
was irresistible. I began to look forward to it. I enjoyed it. When
my comfortable bunk pulled strongly, and I was too lazy to get up, I
would feel all day a sense of having missed something. I had never
been able to pray anywhere else so easily as I prayed there. I had
never before understood the satisfaction of worship.

Monty soon found that the only enemy who could beat him and prevent
a swelling attendance of Youth at the Mass, was Cosy Bed. C.B., as
he contemptuously called him, was most powerful at 7.0 in the
morning. Padre Monty would not have been Padre Monty, had he failed
to declare war on the foe at once. He drew up a "Waking List" of his
family (for he had adopted everybody on the ship under 25), and each
morning went his rounds, visiting a score of cabins, where the
"children" slept. He burst upon them unceremoniously, and threw open
the darkened port-holes to let the sunlight in. For the sunlight,
like all bright things, was on the