Sir William Thorogood rose from the table on which lay a confusion of papers, drawings and charts. He walked across the cabin to the tiled fireplace, selected a cigar from his case, and lit it with precise care.

"You're right," he said. "You've put your finger on the weak spot. No one in Whitehall saw it, and they're seamen. I didn't see it, and—and I'm called a scientist." He made an imperceptible inclination of his head towards his companion as if to convey a compliment.

The other occupant of the broad cabin smiled a little grimly. "It's a question of actual experience," he said. "Experience of this particular form of warfare, and the means of meeting it hitherto at our disposal."

He pencilled some figures on a piece of paper and studied them with knitted brows.

"It's a pity," he said presently. "You're on the brink of the most stupendous discovery of our day. The submarine was a wonderful invention, and there's no limit to the possibilities of its development—or abuse. Until an effective counter can be devised it remains a very terrible menace to civilisation in the hands of an unscrupulous belligerent."

Sir William smoked in silence. His thin, aristocratic face, and his level grey eyes, had a look of fatigue. "I was particularly glad to avail myself of your invitation," he said. "I wanted practical experience of the conditions in the North Sea—weather and visibility. And, later on, in the North Atlantic. I'm going over to Ireland next month." His tired eyes followed the blue smoke curling upwards. "Of course, the experiments we tried down South answered all right for short distances. That's what rather deceived us. They were harbour trials, no more. We want something more exhaustive than that. And, as you say, there's the pull of the tides to consider…. Confound the tide!"

His companion smiled. "That's what Canute said. Or words to that effect. But it didn't help matters much."

"Quite," replied Sir William dryly. "Well, I should like to take a patrol boat and one of our submarines for a day or two and test that new theory—to-morrow if I may. And—while I think of it—I have promised a young nephew of mine to dine with him to-night in his ship, if it in no way inconveniences you?"

The other nodded, and, reaching out his hand, pressed the button of an electric bell beside his desk.

* * * * *

It was the hour preceding dinner, and the majority of the members of the Wardroom had congregated in the ante-room to discuss sherry and the day's affairs before descending to their cabins to change. It was a cheerful gathering, as the hour and the place betokened, and the usual mild chaff flowed to and fro in its mysteriously appointed channels.

In Naval communities, as in most others where men are segregated from wider intercourse by a common mode of life and purpose, each one occupies the place designed for him by Destiny for the smooth working of the whole. These types are peculiar to no trade or profession. A gathering of farmers or elders of the Church, or even Christy Minstrels, would, if thrown together for a sufficient period of time, and utterly dependent on one another for daily intercourse, fall into the places allotted to each by temperament and heredity. Each little community would own a wit and a butt; the sentimentalist and the cynic. The churl by nature would appear through some veneer of manner, if only to bring into relief the finer qualities of his fellows; lastly, and most surely, one other would jingle a merciful cap and bells, and mingle motley with the rest.

The First Lieutenant had just come down from the upper-deck, and stood warming his hands by the fire. Big-boned, blue-eyed, health and vitality seemed to radiate from his kindly, forceful personality. Of all the officers on board "Jimmy the One" was, with perhaps the exception of the Captain, most beloved by the men. A seaman to the fingertips, slow to wrath and clean of speech, he had the knack of getting the last ounce out of tired men without driving or raising his voice. Working cables on the forecastle in the cold and snowy darkness, when men's faculties grow torpid with cold, and their safety among the grinding cables depends more upon the alert supervision of the First Lieutenant than the mere instinct for self-preservation, "Jimmy the One" was credited with powers allied to those of the high Gods. "'Tween decks," where the comfort and cleanliness of close on eleven hundred men was mainly his affair, they abused, loved and feared him with whole-hearted affection. His large football-damaged nose smelt out dirt as a Zulu witch-doctor smells out magic. The majority of the vast ship's company—seamen ratings, at all events—he knew by name. He also presided over certain of the lower-deck amusements, and, at the bi-weekly cinema shows, studied their tastes in the matter of Charlie Chaplin and the Wild West with the discrimination of a lover choosing flowers for his mistress.

His own personal amusements were few. He admitted possessing three books which he read and re-read in rotation: "Peter Simple," "Alice in Wonderland," and a more recent discovery, Owen Wister's "Virginian." A widowed mother in a Yorkshire dower house was the only relative he was ever heard to refer to, and for her benefit every Sunday afternoon he sat down for an hour, as he had since schooldays, and wrote a boyish, detailed chronicle of his doings during the past week.

The two watch-keeping Lieutenants sat one on each arm of the deep-seated chesterfield opposite the fire. They were the Inseparables of the Mess, knit together in that curious blend of antagonistic and sympathetic traits of character which binds young men in an austere affection passing the love of woman. One was short and stout, the other tall and lean; an illustration in the First Lieutenant's edition of "Alice in Wonderland" supplied them with their nicknames, which they accepted from the first without criticism or demur.

The Fleet Surgeon sat between them cleaning a pipe with a collection of seagull's feather gathered for the purpose on the golf links ashore. He was thin, a grey-haired, silent man. His face, in repose, was that of a deliberate thinker whose thoughts had not led him to an entirely happy goal. Yet his smile when amused had a quality of gratitude to the jester, not altogether without pathos. He had a slightly cynical demeanour, a bitter tongue, and a curiously sympathetic, almost tender manner with the sick. He was professedly a fierce woman-hater, and when ashore passed children quickly with averted eyes.

Of a different type was the Paymaster, sunny as a schoolboy, irresponsible in leisure hours as the youngest member of the Mess. Perhaps there had been a time when he had not found life an altogether laughing matter. He had an invalid wife; his means were small, and most of his life had been spent at sea. But misfortune seemed to have but tossed a challenge to his unquenchable optimism and faith in the mercy of God. He had picked up the gage with a smile, flung it back with a laugh, and with drawn blade joined the gallant band of those who strive eternally to defend the beleaguered Citadel of Human Happiness.

Others came and went among the gathering; the Engineer Commander, fiercely bearded and moustached, who cherished an inexplicable belief that a studied soldierly accent and bearing helped him in his path through life. The Major, clean-shaven and philosophic; the Gunnery Lieutenant, preoccupied with his vast responsibilities, a seaman-scientist with a reputation in the football-field. The Torpedo Lieutenant, quiet, gentle-mannered, fastidious in his dress and not given to overmuch speech. The Engineer-Lieutenant, whose outlook on life alternated between moods of fierce hilarity and brooding melancholy, according to the tenour of a correspondence with a distracting Red Cross nursing sister exposed to the perils of caring for good-looking military officers in the plains of Flanders. Lastly, the Captain of Marines; he was the musician of the Mess, much in demand at sing-songs; editor, moreover, of the Wardroom magazine, a periodical whose humour was of a turn mercifully obscure to maiden aunts. A first-class cricketer and racquet-player, a student of human nature with a tolerance for the failings of others that suggested a strain of Latin blood, and a Marine with an almost passionate pride in the great traditions of his Corps.

Such were among the occupants of the anteroom when Thorogood entered the crowded room and crossed over to the door leading to the Wardroom where the Marine waiters were laying the table.

"Tell the Messman I've got a guest to dinner," said Thorogood to the
Corporal of the Wardroom servants.

The Young Doctor, who was leaning against the overmantel of the stove warming himself, crossed over to Thorogood with an expression of portentous solemnity on his face.

"James," he said, and laid a hand on the other's shoulder, "before you get busy on the wassail-bowl, my lad, I should like to remind you that the boat's crew will commence training for the Regatta at 7 A.M. to-morrow. No fatheads wanted. Enough said."

The Gunnery Lieutenant looked up from a game of draughts with Double-O
Gerrard, the Assistant Paymaster. "Who've you got dining with you,
Jimmy?" he asked. The introduction of "new blood" into a Mess, even for
the evening, is generally a matter of interest to the inmates.

"An old uncle of mine," was the reply. "He signalled from the Flagship that he was coming to dinner. I don't know what he's doing up here."

Mouldy Jakes, who was sitting on an arm of the sofa watching the game of draughts, looked across at Thorogood.

"Sir William?" he asked. "Is that man of mystery up here? What's he up to?"

"Don't know," replied Thorogood. "Dirty work, I suppose."

The Young Doctor assumed an expression of rapture. "What!" he cried, "my old college chum Sir William!" Then with a swift change of mimicry he bent into a senile pose with nodding head and shaking fingers, mumbling at his lips:

"Ah! Ah!" he wheezed, "how time flies! I mind the day when he and I were lads together—hee-hee—brave lads … Eton and Christ Church together——" He broke off into a decrepit chuckle.

"Dry up, Pills, you ass," cried the Torpedo Lieutenant, laughing. "You aren't a bit funny—in fact, I'm not sure you aren't rather bad form."

"Bad form?" echoed the First Lieutenant. "Let us see now. What's the penalty for bad form, Pay? I've forgotten."

"To be devoured by lions," said the Paymaster calmly, with an eye on the sofa where Garm, the bull-terrier, sprawled as usual.

"That's right," said the First Lieutenant, "so it is: devoured of lions."

The next moment the Doctor was tripped up into the depths of the sofa, the bull-terrier, thus rudely awakened from slumber, dumped on top of him, and his struggles stifled by the bodies of the Paymaster and First Lieutenant. "Eat him, Garm—Hi! good beastie! Chew his nose, lick his collar…!"

The great bull-terrier, accustomed to being the instrument of such summary execution, entered into the game with zest, and sprawling across the Surgeon's chest with one massive paw on his face, nuzzled and slavered in an abandonment of affectionate gusto.

"Oh!—oh!—oh!—pah!—phew!" The victim writhed and spluttered protests.
"Dry up—Garm, you great donkey! Piff!—you're—smothering—me—beast!
Ugh! my collar—clean—no offence—Jimmy, I 'pologise—lemme get up …
Faugh!"

In the midst of the uproar the door opened and the Midshipman of the
Watch appeared.

"Mr. Thorogood, sir," he called. "Someone to see you."

The group on the sofa broke up. The Surgeon sat up panting and wiping his face. The dog jumped to the deck and accompanied Thorogood across to the door, wagging a friendly tail.

Sir William Thorogood, hat in hand, with his cloak over his arm, entered the ante-room. His eyeglass fell from his eye.

"Hullo, Uncle Bill," exclaimed his nephew. "You're early—nice and early—we've just started training for the Regatta and we're straffing the coxswain by way of a start! Er—Staff Surgeon Tucker, Sir William Thorogood."

The Surgeon advanced with a rather embarrassed grin and shook hands with the eminent scientist.

"I fancy I knew your father once," said the latter smiling. "He held the chair of Comparative Anatomy—we were at college together—bless me!—a good many years ago now." He stood smiling down at Pills from his lean height.

The Mess chortled at the Surgeon's discomfiture. Thorogood turned to the Commander who had just then entered. "This is Commander Hornby," he said, and introduced the two men. "There's Mouldy—you remember him?" Mouldy Jakes came over and shook hands gravely. "And this is the rest of the Mess." He included the remainder with a wave of his hand, and Sir William acknowledged the informal general introduction with the grave, smiling self-possession of the perfectly bred Englishman.

"Now," said his nephew, "what about a cocktail, Uncle Bill?"

"Yes," said Mouldy Jakes, sharing with his friend the responsibility of entertaining this eminent guest. "We've got rather a good brand—fizzy ones. Do you a power of good, sir!"

Sir William laughed. "Thank you," he said, "but fizzy cocktails and I came to the parting of the ways more years ago than I care to remember. Perhaps I may be allowed to join you in a glass of sherry….?"

"Rather," said his host, and gave the order. "Well, Uncle Bill," he said, "what brings you up to Ultima Thule and on board the Flagship?"

The Scientist helped himself to a biscuit from the tray on a little table near the door. "I'm staying with—with an old friend for a few days, for a change of air," he said. He took the proffered glass of sherry and sipped it appreciatively. "May I congratulate you on your excellent sherry?"

"It's not bad," said Mouldy Jakes. "I'm the wine caterer," he added modestly.

At this juncture dinner was announced and they passed through into the long Wardroom.

Shaded electric lights hung down above the table that traversed the length of the Mess. A number of ornamental pieces of silver and trophies adorned the centre of the table and winked and glistened against the dark mahogany. Slips of white napery ran down on either side, on which the glasses, silver and cutlery lay. They took their places, the presidential hammer tapped, and the Chaplain, rising, offered brief thanks. Immediately after a buzz of conversation broke out generally.

Sir William, on the right of the President, indicated the glittering trophies. "I see you keep your plate on board," he said, smiling, "even in war."

The Commander laughed. "Well," he said, "all these things we actually won ourselves. There's a lot more stuff—the things that belong to the ship itself, one commission as much as another, and those we landed. Then, if we get sunk, successive ships bearing our name will carry them, you see … yes, half a glass, please. But all you see here we won at battle practice just before the war, boat-racing and so on…. Incidentally we hope to win the Squadron Regatta this year. That big one over there was from the passengers of a burning ship we rescued…. If we're sunk they may as well go down with us; at least, that's how we look at it. It is only in keeping with our motto, after all."

He pushed across a silver menu-holder, bearing the ship's crest and motto on a scroll beneath it. The guest picked it up and examined it. "What we hold we hold," he read. "Yes, I see. It's not a bad interpretation."

Sir William looked round the table at the laughing, animated faces—many of them little more than boys seen through the long perspective of his own years.

The Chaplain was having "his leg hauled." The joke was obscure, and concerned an episode of bygone days which appeared to be within the intimate recollection of at least half the number seated round the table.

The other half were demanding enlightenment, and in the laughter and friendly mischief on certain faces Sir William read an affectionate, mysterious freemasonry apparently shared by all.

For a moment he leaned back, contemplating in imagination the scores of great ships surrounding them on all sides, invisible in the night: in each Wardroom there was doubtless a similar cheerful gathering beneath the shaded electric lights. Musing thus, glancing from face to face, and listening, half uncomprehending, to the laughing jargon, he glimpsed for an instant the indefinable Spirit of the Fleet. Each of these communities, separated by steel and darkness from the other, shared it. It stretched back into a past of unforgotten memories, linking one and all in a brotherhood that compassed the waters of the earth, and bore their traditions with unfailing hands across the hazard of the future.

The meal drew to a close and the decanters went slowly round. Mouldy Jakes, from his seat opposite the President, was attempting to catch Sir William's eye. His nephew intercepted and interpreted the gesticulations. "Mouldy's recommending the Madeira, Uncle Bill," said his nephew; "he evidently feels that his reputation as wine caterer is at stake after your comments on the sherry!"

Sir William laughed and filled his glass accordingly.

Obedient to a signal conveyed to the Bandmaster by a Marine waiter, the band in the flat outside came suddenly to a stop.

Down came the President's hammer, and the name of the King preceded the raising of glasses. Then the violins outside resumed their whimpering melody; coffee followed a second circulation of the decanters, and presently the smoke of cigars and cigarettes began to eddy across the polished mahogany.

A few minutes later the Master-at-Arms entered the Wardroom, and stepping up to the Commander's chair, reported something in a low voice. The Commander turned sideways to the guest of the evening. "Will you excuse me if I leave you?" he said. "I have to go the rounds." And rising from the table left a gap at Sir William's side. Intimate conversation between uncle and nephew, hitherto impracticable, was now possible.

"How's Cecily, Uncle Bill?" asked James. "Which reminds me," he added, "that I met Armitage when I was coming back from leave."

Sir William removed his cigar and contemplated the pale ash with inscrutable eyes.

"I heard from Armitage," he replied. "Did you by any chance meet his companion on the journey up?"

James shook his head. "No, I only saw Armitage for a moment, and that was in the darkness at the rail-head. But you haven't told me how Cecily is."

"She wants to go to America," replied his uncle.

"America!" echoed his nephew. "Why?"

"To stay with an old school friend. It seems she wants to go over for a
Newport season."

"But," said James and paused, "are you going to let her go, Uncle Bill?"

"She says she's going," was her guardian's reply.

James smoked in silence for a moment.

"But Newport," he said. "Where on earth did Cecily develop a taste for that sort of life?"

"Read about it in a book, I fancy," said Sir William.

"But it isn't the sort of thing I can imagine appealing to Cecily in the least," objected her cousin. "I know what Cecily likes—pottering about in old tweeds with a dog, sketching and fishing. I can't see her at Bailey's Beach surf-bathing with millionaires in the family diamonds. Besides, what about her war work—her Hospital Supply Depot?"

Sir William made no answer.

"Is she unhappy about anything?" pursued James. "Has Armitage been making love to her? I know he used to follow her about like a sick dog, but I didn't know it upset her."

Sir William smiled. "No," he said, "I shouldn't have said so either. But I don't claim any profound insight into the feminine mind. All I know is that she looks rather pale, and she has grown uncommonly quiet. At times she has restless moods of rather forced gaiety. But the reason for it all, I'm afraid, is beyond me."

"Do you remember d'Auvergne?" asked his nephew suddenly. "Podgie d'Auvergne. He spent a summer leave with us once, and he used to come up to town a good deal from Whale Island when he was there. Do you think Cecily is in love with him?"

"Bless me," said Sir William helplessly, "I don't know. I never remember her saying so. Do you think that would account for—for her present mood? Women are such curious beings——"

"I know he's fearfully gone on her," said James, "but he lost a foot early in the war. He hasn't been near her since."

"Why not?" asked the Scientist vaguely.

"Oh, because—because he's fearfully sensitive about it. And he's frightfully in love with her. You see, a thing like that tells enormously when a fellow's in love."

"Does it?" enquired Sir William. "Well, granted that your theory is correct, I fail to see what I am to do. I can't kidnap this young man and carry him to my house like the alien visitor you once brought to disturb my peaceful slumbers."

"Ah," said James, "Crabpots!" He chuckled retrospectively.

"If he has really developed a neurotic view of his injury, as you imply," continued the older man, "it's no use my inviting him, because he would only refuse to come."

"You'll have to work it somehow," replied his nephew. "Sea voyages aren't safe enough just now—we'd never forgive ourselves if we let Cecily go and anything happened to her—or Podgie either," he added grimly.

By twos and threes the members of the Mess had risen from the table and drifted into the ante-room to play bridge, or to their cabins, there to write letters, read, or occupy themselves in wood-carving and kindred pursuits. At a small table in the comer of the long Mess the officers of the Second Dog Watch had finished a belated meal, and were yarning in low voices over their port.

James and his uncle alone remained seated at the long table.

"Well," said the former, "let's move on, Uncle Bill. Would you like a rubber of bridge?"

"I can play bridge in London," replied his guest, rising. "No, Jim, I think I'd like to take this opportunity of paying a visit to the Gunroom. When you are my age you'll find a peculiar fascination about youth and its affairs. Do you think they'd object to my intrusion?"

"They'd be awfully bucked," said James. "Come along." As they passed out of the door they met the Marine postman entering with his arms full of letters and papers. "Hullo," he continued, "here's the mail—you'll see a Gunroom devouring its letters: rather like a visit to the Zoo about feeding-time!"

They came to the door of the Gunroom, and James, opening it, motioned his guest to enter. One end of the table resembled a bee swarm: a babel of voices sounded as those nearest the pile of letters shouted the names of the addressees and tossed the missives back over their heads.

The two men stood smiling and unobserved in the doorway until the distribution was complete. Then they were seen, and the Sub advanced to extend the hospitality of his realm.

"Kedgeree," said James, "this is my uncle. He's getting bored with the Wardroom and I've brought him along here." The Sub laughingly shook hands, and the inmates in his immediate vicinity gathered round with the polite air of a community of whom something startling was expected.

"Won't you sit down, sir?" asked one, drawing forward the battered wicker arm-chair. "It's all right as long as you don't lean back—but if you do we must prop it against the table." He suited the action to the words, and the guest sat down rather gingerly.

"Won't you have something to drink?" queried Kedgeree. "Whisky and soda or something?"

Sir William smilingly declined.

"Would you care to hear the gramophone?" queried the champion of that particular form of entertainment. "We've got some perfectly priceless George Robey ones—have you ever heard 'What there was, was Good?'" He moved towards the instrument.

"Never," said Sir William, taking advantage of the support afforded by the table and leaning back, "but nothing would give me greater pleasure."

The disk had no sooner commenced to revolve when Lettigne advanced with a soda-water bottle, a corkscrew and half a lemon, collected at random from the sideboard.

"I don't know if you like watching a bit of juggling," he said shyly, and began to throw into the air and catch his miscellany, while the trumpet of the gramophone proclaimed that "What there was, was Good," in stentorian, brazen shouts.

Sir William screwed his eyeglass tighter into his eye. "Remarkable!" he said warmly. "A remarkably deft performance! Capital! Capital!"

The Gunroom eyed one another anxiously. It was only a question of moments before the perspiring Bosh smashed something; the gramophone record was palpably cracked; their powers of entertainment were rapidly reaching their climax. Then came a diversion. The door opened and the Midshipman of the Watch entered.

"The Flagship's barge has called for you, sir," he said.

The gramophone stopped as if by magic, and the overheated juggler caught and retained the soda-water bottle, the corkscrew and the half lemon with a gasp of relief.

Sir William rose regretfully and held out his hand. "I have to thank you all for a very delightful quarter of an hour," he said, smiling, and took his departure amid polite murmurs of farewell, followed by James. Proof of his appreciation of the entertainment reached them a week later in the form of an enormous plum cake, and was followed thereafter at regular intervals by similar bounty.

Lettigne sat down and wiped his forehead. "Phew!" he said when the door had closed behind the visitors. "Who was that old comic? I didn't catch his name."

"Sir William Thorogood," replied another. "He's full of grey-matter." He tapped his forehead, and stepping across to the common bookshelf indicated the back of a text book on advanced mechanics. "That's one of his little efforts," he said.

Lettigne followed the other's finger. "Good night!" he ejaculated.
"Have I been giving a display of my unequalled talents for the benefit of
the man who has caused me more sleepless nights than Euclid himself?
Here is poor old George Robey been shouting himself hoarse too——"

"And I haven't even looked at my mail yet," said Harcourt, drawing an unopened letter from his pocket. He slit the envelope and sat down in the vacated arm-chair. It was from his sister at school in Eastbourne, and enclosed another written in a vaguely familiar hand. Boy like he read the enclosure first:

DEAR FATHER [it ran],—I have just put my name down for the boxing championship, and I'll do my best to win, because I know how awfully keen you are. All the same, I think it's a pity you took up that bet with Harcourt's father at the club. He probably can afford to lose and you can't. There are lots of things that Mother wants that ten pounds would buy. Besides, Harcourt is my best friend, and if we both get into the finals it would be beastly and like fighting for money. I wish you hadn't told me. I must end now. With love to Mother and Dick. In haste. Your loving son,

BILLY.

Harcourt, grown suddenly rather pale, picked up his sister's letter and read with puzzled brows:

DEAR HARRY,—When I opened your last letter I found the enclosed. It had evidently been put in by mistake, because the envelope was in your handwriting. I am sending it back….

Harcourt pursed up his lips into a whistling shape and refolded the enclosure. It was in Mordaunt's handwriting. But how did it get into the envelope he himself had addressed to his sister?

At that moment Mordaunt came across the mess holding out a letter.

"Harcourt," he said, "my father has just sent me this letter. Isn't it your handwriting?"

Harcourt took the sheet of paper and glanced at it. "Yes," he said, "it's one I wrote to my sister for her birthday. And here's one that she has just sent back to me. Is it yours by any chance?"

He carelessly extended the folded missive, and summoning all his self-possession, looked his friend in the eyes and smiled wanly. "I've only just read my sister's letter," he went on. "She seemed rather puzzled…"

Mordaunt took the proffered letter and nodded. "Yes," he said, "it's mine." He, too, paled a little. "I think I know what's happened. Do you remember that scrap just as we were finishing our letters the other night? Bosh pulled the table-cloth down and capsized everything. Our letters got mixed up, and we must have addressed each other's envelopes."

He stood turning the letter to his father over and over in his fingers.

"Well," said Harcourt reassuringly, "it doesn't matter much, old thing, does it? I'm just going to put this in another envelope and send it off to my sister, with a note to explain. There's no harm done! I don't suppose your letter was a matter of vast importance either, was it, Billy?" He spoke lightly, in a tone of amused indifference, and turned to the locker where he kept his writing materials.

The other walked over to the stove, slowly tearing his letter into pieces.

"No," he said. "Oh, no … none at all."