ed to warlike
acts. Sparks lodged a written complaint with Hosea, who gave both parties
the best advice. But it was a false step in Sparks to send in this
communication, which would if forwarded have cost Mead, perhaps, his
living; and it was made worse by Sparks's glib defence, "I was doing my
duty," since he had been at a safe distance from the war when Mead's
duty lay on the Gallipoli beaches. And he still affected to think of
upholding his letter.

Matters were therefore strained, and the more they were so the more Mead
liked it. "Don't let me catch you ashore," had been his way of passing
Sparks the time of day in port; at sea, he growled abuse at him whenever
he saw him, and if no better occasion offered itself, would suddenly
thrust his face in all the semblance of murderous intention through the
open porthole of the young man's room and utter calm, deliberate, and
unnatural purposes.

In this feud, my position was not comfortable. Unlicked as he was (up to
the present) and devoid of fine points, the Marconi, whose cabin was
neighbour to mine, wished me no harm, and even sought my esteem. Mead,
whom I did esteem, was discontented with any half-measures on my part, and
in any case I felt bound to observe neutrality. But the capers of my
angry friend were often amusing, the declarations of duty conscientiously
executed by his _bete noir_--Mead had a weakness for style--were not. And
it is scarcely necessary to repeat, the general view of Sparks was not a
moral support to Mead even if he had "no case."

On the occasion that I described, Mead had decided to drive his point
well home with the aid of rhyme. I took a copy of his somewhat indecorous
production. It had many "spirited couplets," embodying considerable
observations:

To see you promenade the deck
Gives me a pain in my ruddy neck.

Sparks had been unwise, again, in mentioning his pleasure in the
slaughterer's trade, and past experience. Mead did not miss the
opportunity.

If the blood of sheep could make you glow
Come and dare to make mine flow.
I am no hero out for gore,
I had the wind up in the war.

Names and menaces came fast and furious.

... Flowers there'll be which you won't smell,
You swob, you'll learn a lot in hell.
Had I been called half these things
Some one or I'd be wearing wings.

This effusion, laboriously printed in CAPITALS so that its effect on the
recipient should be the more demoral