ewith decorate their faces. One is ornamented with a pointed
beard and the devil's horns, and turned into Mephistopheles. One is
given an unshaven chin, and made to represent Moses Ikeystein.
Another is a White-eyed Kaffir. And don't think Major Hardy omits
himself. Not he. He is Hindenburg.

Jimmy Doon, I regret to say, is undoubtedly drunk. He is walking
about seeking someone to fight. To my discomfiture he approaches me
as his best friend, and therefore the one most likely to fight him.

"Will you fight?" says he. "There's a decent shap."

I try with a sickly laugh to appear at my ease, and answer: "No,
damned if I will," blushing to the roots of my hair, and wishing the
painful person would go away.

"And you call yourself a Christian!" retorts Jimmy; which provokes
the rest of the subalterns to hold a court-martial on James Doon for
being tight. And they court-martial Fishy Fielding, an ugly fellow,
whose eyes are like a cod's. What for, you seek to know. Well, they
court-martial him because of his face. Both culprits are found
guilty.

At 1 a.m. Jimmy staggers to his cabin to rest a swimming head. But
he doesn't go to sleep till he has summoned his steward, and
instructed him to call him early in the morning--call him
early--call him early, for he's to be Queen of the May.

Sec.4

The riot had been still young when Doe entered the lounge from the
deck, and, walking up to me, said:

"Come outside a minute."

He moved and spoke with the slight excitement and mysteriousness of
one who had discovered something. I followed him out from the noise
of the lounge into the silence of the deck.

"Come where it's quiet," he whispered.

We walked to the deserted bows.

"Now listen. Do you hear anything?"

"No," I answered, after awhile.

"Listen again. You won't catch it first go."

I strained my ears, while Doe stared at me.

"Yes, I hear it," I proclaimed at last. "Is it Helles, do you think,
or Suvla?"

"I expect some of it is the old Turk trying to resist the invasion
of Suvla."

For I had heard a distant throb in the air--no more--like a heart
beating miles away. At times the throb became a rumble which could
be felt rather than heard. Something in me jumped at the sound. The
startled feeling was rather pleasing than otherwise. It was not a
small thing to hear for the first time the guns of Gallipoli, to
whose mouths our lives had been slowly drawing us during nineteen
years.

Sec.5

Padr