The Flagship's Wardroom and the smoking-room beyond were packed to suffocation by a dense throng of officers. The Flagship was "At-Home" to the Fleet that afternoon on the occasion of the Junior Officers' Boxing Tournament which was being held onboard, and a lull in the proceedings had been the signal for a general move below in quest for tea.

Hosts and guests were gathered round the long table, standing in pairs or small groups, and talking with extraordinary gusto. Opportunities of intercourse between ships are rare in War-time. Save for an occasional visitor to lunch or dinner, or a haphazard meeting on the golf-links, each ship or flotilla dwelt a little community apart. On occasions such as this, however, the vast Fleet came together; Light Cruiser met Destroyer with a sidelong jerk of the head and a "Hullo, Old Thing…" that spanned the years at a single leap; Submarine laughed across the room at Seaplane-carrier; Mine-sweeper and Mine-layer shared a plate of sandwiches with a couple of Sloops and discussed the boxing; but they were no more than a leavening amid the throng of "big-ship folk" who reckoned horse-power by the half hundred thousand and spoke of guns in terms of the 15-inch.

Almost every rank of Naval officer was represented, from Commander to Sub-Lieutenant and their equivalent ranks in other branches; yet the vast majority shared a curious resemblance. It was elusive and quite apart from the affinity of race. The high physical standard demanded of each on entry, the athletic training of their early years, the stern rigour of life afloat, perhaps accounted for it. But in many of the tanned, clean-shaven faces there was something more definite than that; a strain that might have been transmitted by the symbolic Mother of the Race, clear-eyed and straight of limb, who still sits and watches beneath stern calm brows the heritage of her sons.

A few there were among the gathering with more than youth's unwisdom marring mouth and brow; eyes tired with seeing over-much looked out here and there from the face of Youth. Yet amid the wholesome, virile cheerfulness of that assembly they were but transient impressions, lingering on the mind of an observer with no more permanency than the shadows of leaves flickering on a sunny wall.

A Lieutenant-Commander, on whose left breast the gaudy ribbons of Russian decorations hinted at the nature of his employment during the War, was talking animatedly to a Lieutenant with the eagle of the Navy-that-Flies above the distinction lace on his cuff. A grave-faced Navigating Commander, scenting the possibility of an interesting discussion between these exponents of submarine and aerial warfare, pushed his way towards them through the crush.

"… I remember her quite well," the Flying Man was saying as he stirred his tea. "Nice little thing … married, is she? Well, well…"

"You're a nice pair," said the Commander, smiling. "I came over here expecting to hear you both discussing the bursting area of a submarine bomb, and find you're talking scandal."

"It's a year old at that," said the be-ribboned one, with a laugh. "I've just come back from the White Sea, but I seem to know more about what Timmin's lady friends have been doing in the meanwhile than he does himself!"

He bit firmly into a sardine sandwich and laughed again. A great hum of men's voices filled the room. Scraps of home gossip exchanged between more intimate friends, and comments on the afternoon's boxing mingled with tag-ends of narratives from distant seas and far-off shores. It was nearly all war, of course, Naval war in some guise or other, and it covered most of the navigable globe.

A general conversation of this nature cannot be satisfactorily reproduced. A person slowly elbowing his way from the big tea-urns at one end of the mess to the smoking-room at the other, would, in his passage, cut off, as it were, segments of talk such as the following:

"… Ripping little boxer, isn't he? I had his term at Osborne
College, but he's learnt a good deal since then…."

* * * *

"… Jess? Poor little dog: she was killed by a 4-inch shell in that
Dogger Bank show. I've got an Aberdeen terrier now."

* * * *

"… Bit of a change up here, isn't it, after being under double awnings for so long? But the Persian Gulf was getting rather boring … were you invalided too?"

* * * *

"… Not they! They won't come out—unless their bloomin' Emperor sends them out to commit a sort of hari-kiri at the end of the war…. That's what makes it so boring up here…."

* * * *

"As a matter of fact we caught the Turk who laid most of the mines in the Tigris. He conned us up the river—we put him in a basket and slung him on the bowsprit: just in case he got careless, what? …"

* * * *

"… Beer? My dear old lad, the Japs had scoffed all the beer in
Kiao-Chau before I got into the main street…."

* * * *

"… I had a Midshipman up with me as observer—aged 16 and 4 months precisely…. Those machines scared the Arabs badly…."

* * * *

"… Just a sharpened bayonet. You slung it round your neck when you were swimming…. Only had to use it once … nasty sticky job. No joke either, crawling about naked on your belly in the dark…."

* * * *

"… We had a fellow chipping the ice away from the conning-tower hatch all the time we were on the surface, 'case we had to close down quick. I tell you, it was Hell, that cold! …"

* * * *

"… Five seconds after we had fired our torpedo a shell hit the tube and blew it to smithereens. A near thing, I give you my word…."

* * * *

A Lieutenant-Commander appeared at the doorway from the smoking-room.

"There will be an exhibition bout next," he shouted, "and then the final of the Light-weights!" A general move ensued on to the upper deck.

The raised ring was in amidships before the after superstructure. The officers occupied tiers of chairs round three sides of the platform. The Admirals and their staffs in front, and the Post-captains of the ships that had entered competitors, just behind. On the forward side, extending the whole breadth of the ship, was the dense array of the ship's company. The majority were in tiers on planks, but a number had found their way to other points of vantage, and were clustered about the funnel casings and turrets and even astride the great guns themselves. A murmur of men's voices, punctuated by the splutter of matches as hundreds of pipes were lit and relit, went up on all sides. The judges were taking their seats at the little tables on either side of the ring, and the referee, an athletic-looking Commander, was leaning over from his chair talking to the Chaplain who was acting as time-keeper.

The Physical Training Officer of the Flagship stepped into the empty ring and raised his hand for silence. The hum of voices died away instantly, and in the stillness the thin, querulous crying of the gulls somewhere astern alone was audible.

"Lieutenant Adams, Welter-weight Champion of the Navy, and Seaman Hands, ex-Middle-weight Champion of England, have kindly consented to give an exhibition of sparring," he proclaimed, and withdrew.

During the applause that greeted the announcement a youthful figure, clad in a white singlet and football shorts, with a sweater thrown over his shoulders, ducked under the ropes and walked rather shyly to his corner of the ring. His appearance was the signal for a vociferous outburst of applause. He sat down, holding the sweater about his shoulders with his gloved hands, and thoughtfully rubbing the sole of his left boot in the powdered resin.

The clapping suddenly redoubled, and a broad, bull-necked man of about forty vaulted lightly into the ring and took his place in the opposite corner. He was stripped to the waist; his jaws moved mechanically about a piece of chewing gum, and an expression of benign good-humour and enjoyment lit his battered, kindly countenance.

It was not until the gong sounded and the two men rose from their chairs that the contrast between the toughened ex-professional and the lithe, graceful amateur brought forth a little murmur of delight from the vast audience.

In the sordid surroundings of the prize ring there might have been a suggestion of brutality about the older man. The great hairy chest, the knotted arms covered with barbaric tattooing, the low-crowned skull and projecting lower jaw gave him an aspect of almost savage, remorseless strength softened only by the gentleness of his eyes. He moved as lightly as a cat, and from shoulder to thigh the muscles stirred obedient to every motion.

The Lieutenant was perhaps fifteen years the junior. The playing fields or racquet-courts of any university would recognise his type as nothing out of the common. Deep-chested, lean-flanked, perfectly proportioned, and perhaps a shade "fine-drawn"—England and America carelessly produce and maintain the standard of this perfection of physical beauty as no other white race can.

The two men met in the centre of the ring, and as they shook hands the old pugilist grinned almost affectionately. The lack of several front teeth incidental to his late profession was momentarily apparent, and an enthralled Ordinary Seaman, perched insecurely on the lower funnel casing, drew his breath in relief.

"'E won't 'urt 'im," he said in a whisper, as if to reassure himself.

"Course 'e won't!" replied a companion, expelling a cloud of tobacco smoke between his lips. "'S only a bit o' skylarkin'…. Gawd!" he added in awed tones. "That one 'ud kill a donkey if 'e started 'ittin'."

The two boxers had slipped into their habitual poses and were quietly moving round each other. The graceful activity of the amateur was somewhat characteristic of his school, while the ex-professional contented himself with almost imperceptible movements of his feet, watching with a nonchalant yet wary caution for the coming attack. With the suddenness of a flash the Lieutenant led with his left and was back out of harm's way again.

True and quick was the blow, but the veteran's defence was even quicker. Without raising either glove he appeared to have swayed backwards from the hips. His adversary's glove should have landed full in his face; but so perfectly was his defence timed that it just reached him and no more. The battered face, with its amiable, reassuring smile and slowly moving jaws, had not winked an eyelid.

Then for three short rounds there followed a completely enthralling display. On one side was perfectly trained orthodox, amateur boxing. On the other every clean trick and subterfuge of irreproachable ring-craft. Timing, footwork, feints, guarding and ducking; each subtlety of the art of defence was demonstrated in turn.

In the last few seconds of the final round, however, a little out of breath with his defensive display, the older man changed his tactics. With lowered head and ferocious face he advanced, a whirling bulk of might and action, upon the amateur. Tap—tap—tap! Left—right, over and under, through the guard and round the guard of the outfought youngster the unclenched gloves totted up a score of points. There was a careful restraint behind each blow, yet, when the gong sounded and they smilingly shook hands amid tumults of enthusiasm, a thin red stream was trickling from the right eyebrow of the amateur champion….

As they left the ring two boyish forms slipped through the ropes and made their way to their respective corners. They both wore the orthodox white singlet and blue shorts, and round each waist was twisted the distinguishing coloured sash, one red and the other green. They sat down with their gloved hands resting on their thin knees and gravely surveyed the sea of expectant faces. Both bore traces of previous conflicts on their features, and their united ages aggregated something just over thirty.

The Physical Training Officer again advanced to the ropes. "Final of the Junior Officers' Light-weights!" he announced. "Midshipman Harcourt on the left—green; Midshipman Mordaunt on my right—red," and added the name of their ship. He looked from one to the other interrogatively, and they nodded in turn. Stepping back he resumed his seat amid a tense silence.

"Seconds out of the ring!"

Then the gong rang, and the two wiry figures rose to their feet and stepped briskly to meet each other. The wearer of the green colours was smiling, but his slim adversary looked grave and rather pale with compressed lips.

Their gloves met for an instant, and the fight started. There was little or no preliminary sparring. Each knew the other's tactics by heart. It was just grim, dogged, ding-dong fighting. In height and weight they were singularly evenly matched, but Harcourt soon gave evidences of being unquestionably the better boxer. He boxed coolly and scientifically, but what his opponent lacked in style he made up in determination. Twice his furious attacks drove Harcourt to the ropes, and twice the latter extricated himself nimbly and good-humouredly. Between the thud of gloves and the patter of their feet on the canvas-covered boards their breathing was audible in the tense hush of the ring-side.

Ding! went the gong, and the first round was over. They walked to their corners amid a tempest of appreciative applause, and were instantly pounced upon by their anxious seconds.

In one of the chairs just below the ring, Thorogood removed his pipe from his mouth and turned his head to speak to Mouldy Jakes, who sat beside him.

"Good fight, eh?" he said, smiling. "Harcourt ought to win, of course, but Mordaunt's fighting like a young tiger. He's no boxer, either. I'm bothered if I know how he got into the finals."

"Guts!" said the other. "Sheer guts! He won't last, though.
Harcourt'll start piling up the points in the next round."

But when the second round started, Mordaunt developed unexpected skill in defence. Harcourt led off with an offensive, but his opponent dodged and ducked and guarded until the first fury of the onslaught abated, and then a savage bout of in-fighting quickly equalised matters, until as the end of the round approached disaster very nearly overtook the red colours. Mordaunt swung rather wildly with his right and missed. Harcourt's watchful left landed on the side of his opponent's head as he lost his equilibrium, and Billy Mordaunt went down with a thud.

He was on his feet again the next instant, his eyes fairly alight with battle, and his lip curled back savagely. In a whirlwind of smashing blows he drove Harcourt to the ropes again, until a straight left between the eyes sobered him.

Ding! went the gong again, and again the applause burst out. The seconds fell upon their men with furious energy. The water in the basins was assuming a pinkish tinge, and they sponged and massaged and flapped their towels as if striving to impart something of their own vigour to their tired principals. The two combatants, breathing hard, were leaning back with outstretched arms and legs, every muscle in their resting bodies relaxed.

"Harcourt ought to win, you know," said Thorogood again. "He's just as fit and a better boxer. But he seems to be tiring…. He had a pretty tough time in the heats, I fancy."

"Seconds out of the ring! Last round!" came the Chaplain's voice.
Then the gong brought them to their feet.

They shook hands unsmiling, and began to circle cautiously, sparring for an opening. Then Harcourt led. It was a stinging blow and it landed fair enough. Billy took it, and several more; for a moment it looked as if he had shot his bolt. Then he seemed suddenly to gather all his tiring strength. He feinted and hit lightly with his left. Harcourt blocked it, then unexpectedly lowered his guard; a little mocking smile flitted over his blood-smeared face. Billy's right came in with every ounce of muscle and sinew in his body to back the jolt, and it landed fair on the point of that flaunting chin so temptingly offered.

It seemed to Billy that Harcourt disappeared into a mist. There was a thud and a great roar of voices and the sounds of clapping.

"Stand back!" said a warning voice at the ring-side, and somewhere, apparently in the distance, another voice was counting the deliberate seconds:

"… Five! Six! Seven!"

The angry mist cleared away and revealed Harcourt sprawling on the ground. He was leaning over on both hands, striving gallantly to rise.

"… Eight! Nine!"

The white figure with the green sash was on hands and knees, swaying——

The gong rang. Down and out!

The referee glanced from one judge to the other and raised a little red flag from the table.

"Red wins!" he shouted.

Unconscious of the deafening applause Billy bent down and slipped an arm under his friend's shoulders. All the savage fighting blood in him had suddenly cooled, and there was only pity and love for Harcourt in his heart as he helped him to his feet.

Harcourt's seconds had rushed into the ring as the gong rang, and they now supported him to his corner. At his feeble request one unlaced the glove from his right hand, which he extended to his late adversary with a wan smile.

"That was a good 'un, Billy," he said faintly. "My—head's—still singing … like a top! And—I taught it to you! …"

* * * *

The distribution of prizes to the winners of the different weights followed, and then the great gathering broke up. The Admirals departed with their staffs in their respective barges, the Captains in their galleys, Wardroom and Gunroom officers in the picket-boats. Figures paced up and down the quarterdeck talking together in pairs; farewells sounded at the gangways, and the hoot of the steamboats' syrens astern mingled with the ceaseless calling of the gulls overhead.

Harcourt and Mordaunt, descending the accommodation ladder in the rear of the remainder of their party, were greeted by Morton, at the wheel of the picket-boat, with a broad grin.

"Come on," he ejaculated impatiently. "Hop in! We've got to get back and be hoisted in. Who won the Light-weights by the same token?"

"Billy did," replied Harcourt. He settled himself comfortably on top of the cabin of the picket boat and pulled up the collar of his greatcoat about his face.

Morton jerked the engine-room telegraph and the boat moved off.

"Why are we in such a hurry?" queried Harcourt. "Are we going out?"

The boyish figure at the helm glanced aft to see his stern was clear, and put the wheel over, heading the boat in the direction of their ship.

"Yes," he said. "At least a signal has just come through ordering us to raise steam for working cables at seven p.m."

Lettigne, perched beside Mordaunt on the other side of the cabin-top, leaned across. The crowded excitements of the afternoon had lapsed into oblivion.

"D'you mean the whole Fleet, or only just us?" he asked.

"The whole Fleet," replied Morton, staring ahead between the twin funnels of his boat. "I suppose it's the usual weary stunt; go out and steam about trailing the tail of our coat for a couple of days, and then come back again." The speaker gripped the spokes of the wheel almost savagely. "Lord!" he added, "if only they'd come out…."

Mordaunt fingered his nose gingerly. "They do come out occasionally, I believe. You'd think their women 'ud boo them out…. They sneak about behind their minefields and do exercises, and they cover their Battle-cruisers when they nip out for a tip-and-run bombardment of one of our watering-places. But we'll never catch 'em, although we can stop them from being of the smallest use to Germany by just being where we are."

"We could catch them if they didn't know we were coming South," said another Midshipman perched beside Mordaunt with his knees under his chin.

"But they always do know," said Harcourt over his shoulder. "Their
Zepps always see us coming and give them the tip to nip off home!"

"Fog…" said Mordaunt musingly.

"Yes," said another who had not hitherto spoken. "That 'ud do it all right. But then you couldn't see to hit 'em. 'Sides, you can't count on a fog coming on just when you want it."

"Well," said Morton, with the air of one who was wearied by profitless discussion. "Fog or no fog, I only hope they come out this time."

He rang down "Slow" to the tiny engine-room underneath his feet, and spun the wheel to bring the crowded boat alongside the port gangway.

A Fleet proceeds to sea in War-time with little or no outward circumstance. There was no apparent increase of activity onboard the the great fighting "townships" even on the eve of departure. As the late afternoon wore on the Signal Department onboard the Fleet Flagship was busy for a space, and the daylight signalling searchlights splashed and spluttered while hoist after hoist of flags leaped from the signal platform to yardarm or masthead; and ever as they descended fresh successive tangles climbed to take their place. But after a while even this ceased, and the Flagships of the squadrons, who had been taking it all in, nodded sagely, as it were, and turned round to repeat for the benefit of the ships of their individual squadrons such portions as they required for their guidance.

Then from their hidden anchorage the Destroyers moved past on their way out, flotilla after flotilla in a dark, snake-like procession, swift, silent, mysterious, and a little later the Cruisers and Light Cruisers crept out in the failing light to take up their distant positions. On each high forecastle the minute figures of men were visible moving about the crawling cables, and from the funnels a slight increased haze of smoke trembled upwards like the breath of war-horses in a frosty landscape.

One by one the dripping anchors hove in sight. The water under the sterns of the Battleships was convulsed by whirling vortices as the great steel-shod bulks turned cautiously towards the entrance, like partners revolving in some solemn gigantic minuet. The dusk was fast closing down, but a saffron bar of light in the West still limned the dark outlines of the far-off hills. One by one the majestic fighting ships moved into their allotted places in the line, and presently

"Enormous, certain, slow…."

the lines began to move in succession towards the entrance and the open sea.

The light died out of the western sky altogether, and like great grey shadows the last of the Battle-squadrons melted into the mystery of the night.