the spirit of riot is too
strong for the rough-house to be localised there. It's the end of
the voyage, and they must forthwith go and cheer the General. They
must cheer the Captain. Above all they must cheer Major Hardy, the
old sport! The mass of subalterns flows down the first flight of
stairs to the square gallery which overlooks the dining saloon, like
railings looking down into a bear-pit. And, like the bears, the
seniors were feeding in the bottom of the saloon. They look up from
their nuts and wine to see a hundred flushed young faces staring
from the gallery at their meal.

"Three cheers for the General!" cries a voice in the gallery.

Three of the noisiest fill the ship. And, when a hundred British
officers have yelled three cheers, it's in the nature of them to go
on and sing: "For he's a jolly good fellow," and to finish up with a
final cheer that leaves its forerunners nowhere. It's a way they
have in the Army.

"Speech! Speech!" demand exalted voices.

The General rises: and that's an excuse, heaven help us, for more
cheers, and "He's a jolly good fellow" all over again. The seniors
are young enough to beat time on the tables by hammering with their
spoons till the plates dance; and by tinkling their glasses like
tubular bells. In the last cheer one major so far forgets
himself--his name is Hardy--as to let go with a cat-call, after
which he immediately retires into his monocle, and pretends he
hasn't.

The General, who is a kindly old brigadier with twinkling eyes,
says: "I can't make a speech, but I'll sing you a song." He raises
his glass to the gallery, and to the hundred faces looking down, and
starts in a wheezy tenor: "For _they_ are jolly good fellows." He
gets no further, but takes advantage of the tumult of cheering to
resume his seat.

The Captain, a naval hero of the Helles landing, is put through it.
And in his speech he says: "If the Navy is really the father and
mother of the Army in this Gallipoli stunt, then I say--father and
mother are proud of their children"--(cheers from the ship's
officers). "The ships came as close in shore as possible--and always
will, gentlemen, as long as you're on that plagued Peninsula--but,
by God! it was the Army that left the shelter of the ships, and went
through the blizzard of bullets on to the beaches of Cape Helles."

Can such a compliment be acknowledged otherwise than uproariously?
Close your ears, if you can't stand a noise.

The Chief Off