Lettigne sat on the edge of his sea-chest contemplating a large fragment of a German shell which he held on his knees.

"Will someone tell me where I am going to pack this interesting relic of my blood-stained past?" he enquired of the flat at large.

The after cabin-flat had all the appearances of the interior of a homestead in imminent danger of occupation by an enemy. In front of each open chest stood a Midshipman feverishly cramming boots and garments into already bulging portmanteaux and kit-bags. The deck was littered with rejected collars, pyjamas and underwear; golf-clubs, cricket-bats and fishing-rods lay about in chaotic confusion.

"Will someone tell me where I'm going to pack anything?" replied Malison, delving into the inmost recesses of his chest. "Fancy being told to pack and get away on leave and given an hour to do it in! It isn't decent. It always takes me a week to find my gear."

"Well, you'd better buck up," interposed the Senior Midshipman. "The boat leaves in ten minutes."

"Help!" ejaculated Lettigne. "I don't care," he added. "I'm not going without my blinking trophy." He removed a pair of boots from the interior of an apoplectic-looking kit-bag and substituted the jagged piece of metal. "It weighs about half a ton, but it very nearly bagged Little Willie, and I want my people to see it." He tugged and strained at the straps. "Make 'em appreciate their little hopeful…. Ouf! There! I only hope this yarn about there being no porters anywhere isn't true."

Harcourt, who had reduced the contents of his suit-case in volume by the simple expedient of stamping on them, had finally succeeded in closing the lid.

"Never mind," he shouted. "What does anything matter so long's we're 'appy!" He brandished a cricket-bat and sang in his high, cracked tenor:

"Keep the home fires burning,
Oh, keep the home fires burning,
Keep the home fires burning…."

"I dunno how it goes on," he concluded, lapsing into speech again.

"'Cos we're all going on leave!" roared Matthews. "That's how it ends. That's how everything ends. Ain't it all right?" He closed his chest with a bang and sat on the top with his hands in his pockets, drumming his heels against the sides. "Snooks!" he ejaculated, "I haven't felt like this since I was a mere lad."

"What are you going to do on leave?" queried the tall sandy-haired
Midshipman popularly known as "Wonk."

"Do?" echoed Matthews. "Do?" He allowed his imagination full rein for a moment. "Well," he said, "by way of a start I shall make my soldier brother take me to dinner somewhere where there's a band and fairies in low-necked dresses with diamond ta-rarras on their heads."

"That sounds pretty dull," objected Mordaunt, affectionately burnishing the head of a cleek with a bit of emery paper. "Is that all you're going to do?"

"Not 't all. After dinner I shall smoke a cigar—a mild one, you know—and then we'll go to a 'Revoo' with more fairies. Lots of 'em," he added ruminatingly, "skipping about like young stag-beetles—you know the kind of thing——" The visionary got down off his chest, and, plucking the sides of his monkey-jacket between finger and thumb, pirouetted gracefully amid the scattered suit-cases and litter of clothes. "Comme Ça!" he concluded.

"What then?" demanded Lettigne, growing interested.

"Then," continued Matthews, "then we'll go and have supper somewhere—oysters and things like that. Mushrooms, p'raps…."

"With an actress, Matt?" asked a small Midshipman, known as "the White
Rabbit," in half-awed, half-incredulous tones of admiration.

"P'raps," admitted the prospective man-about-town. "My brother knows tons of 'em."

Harcourt burst into shouts of delight. "Can't you see Matt?" he cried hilariously. "Having supper with a massive actress!" He slapped his thighs delightedly. "Matt swilling ginger ale and saying, 'You're 's' dev'lish fine womansh.' … No, don't start scrapping, Matt; I've just put on a clean collar … and it's got to last…. All right—pax, then."

"Well," said Matthews, when peace was restored. "What's everyone else going to do? What are you going to do, Harcourt?"

"Me and Mordy are going to attrapay the wily trout," was the reply.
"He's going to spend part of the leave with me, and I'm going to spend
part with him. We're going to clean out the pond at his place.
Topping rag."

"And you, Wonk?"

"Cricket," was the reply. "And strawberries. Chiefly strawberries."

"What about you, Bosh?"

"I shall lie in a hammock, and tell lies about the Navy to my sisters a good deal of the time. And when I'm tired of that I shall just lie—in the hammock. Sorry, I didn't mean to be funny——Ow! I swear it was unintentional. Matt, I swear——"

The furious jarring of an electric gong somewhere overhead drowned all other sounds.

"Boat's called away!" shouted the Senior Midshipman. "Up on deck, everyone. Knock off scrapping, Bosh and Matt, or you'll be all adrift."

There was a general scramble for bags and suit-cases, and, burdened with their impedimenta, the Midshipmen made their way up on to the quarterdeck.

Thorogood, Officer of the Watch, was walking up and down with an expression of bored resignation to the inevitable. Forward of the after superstructure the liberty-men were falling-in in all the glory of white cap-covers and brand-new suits, carrying little bundles in their hands. There was on each man's countenance that curious blend of solemnity and ecstatic anticipation only to be read in the face of a bluejacket or marine about to start on long leave.

A group of officers gathering near the after gangway stood waiting for the boat and exchanging chaff customary to such an occasion.

"Here come the Snotties," said the Staff Surgeon. "Lord, I wish I had a gramophone to record their conversation outside my cabin while they were packing." He raised his voice. "Now, then, James, what about this boat? We shall miss the train if you keep us all hanging about here much longer. Some of us have got appointments in town we don't want to miss—haven't we, Matthews?"

The Midshipman thus suddenly addressed flushed and was instantly the target for his companions' humour. "That's right, sir," confirmed Lettigne maliciously. "Matthews is taking a real live actress out to supper to-morrow night."

"Smoking a mild cigar," added another. "And eating oysters and mushrooms," chimed in a third.

Thorogood walked towards the group of laughing, chaffing boys and men.

"She won't be long, now," he said. "You'll all catch the train; I can promise you that."

He smiled wanly.

"James," said the India-rubber Man, "don't look so miserable! I know how sorry you are for us all. But we're going through with it, old man, like Britons."

"That's right," agreed the Paymaster. "We shall think of you, James, and the Commander, and the P.M.O., and all our happy messmates who are staying onboard for the refit. It makes going on leave easier to bear when we think of your smiling faces."

Thorogood turned away. "You're funny little fellows, aren't you?" he said dourly.

The Young Doctor caught the ball and sent it rolling on.

"We shall think of the pneumatic riveter at work over your heads; we shall think of the blithe chatter of the dockyard maties all over the ship, and the smell of the stuff they stick the corticene down with … and we shall face the sad days ahead of us with renewed courage, James, old man."

"Thank you all," replied Thorogood gravely. "Thank you for your beautiful words. Give my love to Mouldy if any of you see him"—the speaker glanced over the side. "And now I have much pleasure in informing you that the boat is alongside, and the sooner you all get into it the sooner to sleep, as the song says."

The Midshipmen were already scrambling down the ladder, carrying their bags and coats, and the Wardroom Officers followed. Farewells and parting shafts of humour floated up from the sternsheets; Thorogood stood at the top of the gangway and waved adieu with his telescope as the boat shoved off and circled round the stern towards the landing-place. For a moment he stood looking after the smiling faces and waving caps and then turned inboard with a sigh.

"Liberty men present, sir!" The Master-at-Arms and Sergeant-Major made their reports and Thorogood moved forward, passing briskly down the lanes of motionless figures and shiny, cheerful countenances.

"Carry on," he said, and acknowledged the salute of the Chief of Police and the Sergeant of Marines.

The men filed over the side and took their places in the boats waiting alongside, and as they sheered off from the ship in tow of the launch and followed in the wake of the distant picket-boat, the closely packed men suddenly broke into a tempest of cheering.

The Captain was walking up and down the quarterdeck talking to the
Commander. He smiled as the tumult of sound floated across the water.

"I wonder they managed to bottle it up as long as they have," he said. "Bless 'em! They've earned their drop of leave if ever men did." They took a few turns in silence. "I hope to get away to-night," continued the Captain, "if they put us in dock this afternoon. When are you going for your leave, Hornby?"

The Commander ran his eye over the superstructure and rigging of the foremast. "Oh, I don't know, sir," he said. "I hadn't thought about it much…. I think I'll get that new purchase for the fore-derrick rove to-morrow…."

The colour had gone out of the sunset, and in the pale green sky at the head of the valley a single star appeared.

With the approach of dusk the noises of the river multiplied; a score of liquid voices seemed to blend into the sleepy murmur of sounds that babbled drowsily among the rocks and boulders, and was swallowed beneath the overhanging branches of the trees.

The India-rubber Man moved quietly down stream, scarcely distinguishable from the gathering shadows by the riverside; he carried a light fly-rod, and once or twice he stopped, puffing the briar pipe between his teeth, to stare intently at the olive-hued water eddying past.

"Coo-ee!"

A faint call floated up the valley, clear and musical above the voices of the stream. The India-rubber Man raised his head abruptly and a little smile flitted across his face. Then he raised his hand to his mouth and sent the answer ringing down-stream:

"Coo-oo-ee-e!"

He stood motionless in an attitude of listening and the hail was repeated.

"Sunset and evening star,"

he quoted in an undertone,

"And one clear call for me…."

There had been a period in his life some years earlier when the India-rubber Man discovered poetry. For months he read greedily and indiscriminately, and then, abruptly as it came, the fit passed; but tags of favourite lines remained in his memory, and the rhythm of running water invariably set them drumming in his ears.

He turned his back on the whispering river and, scrambling up the bank, made his way down-stream through the myriad scents and signs of another summer evening returning to its peace. The path wound through a plantation of young firs which grew fewer as he advanced, and presently gave glimpses beyond the tree-trunks of a wide stretch of open turf. The river, meeting a high wall of rock, swung round noiselessly almost at right angles to its former course; in the centre of the ground thus enclosed stood a weather-beaten tent, and close by lay a small two-wheeled cart with its shafts in the air.

The India-rubber Man paused for a moment on the fringe of the plantation and stood taking in the quiet scene. The shadowy outline of a grazing donkey moved slowly across the turf which narrowed to a single spit of sand, and here, standing upright with her hands at her sides, was the motionless figure of a girl, staring up the river. Something in her attitude stirred a poignant little memory in the mind of the India-rubber Man. In spite of his nearness he still remained invisible to her against the background of the darkling wood.

"Betty!" he called.

For an instant she stared and then came towards him, moving swiftly with her lithe, ineffable grace.

"Oh," she cried, "there you are!" She slid her fingers into his disengaged hand and fell into step beside him. "Bunje," she said with a little laugh that was half a sigh, "I'm like an old hen with one chick—I can hardly bear you out of my sight! Have you had good hunting? What was the evening rise like?"

"It was good," replied the India-rubber Man. "But it was better still to hear you call."

They came to a tall bush where the blossoms of a wild rose glimmered in the dusk like moths. The India-rubber Man stabbed the butt of his rod in the turf, took off his cast-entwined deerstalker and hung it on a bramble; then he slipped the strap of his creel over his head and emptied the contents on to the grass.

"Five," he said, counting. They knelt beside the golden trout and laid them in a row. "I could have taken more," he added, "but that's all we want for breakfast. Besides, it was too nice an evening to go on killing things…. Sort of peaceful. That's a nice one, though, that pounder. He fancied a coachman…" The India-rubber Man straightened up and sniffed the evening air aromatic with the scent of burning wood. "And I've got a sort of feeling I could fancy something, Bet——"

Betty rose too. "It's ready," she said. "I've put the table in the hollow behind the bush. I've got a surprise for you—'will you walk into my parlour? said the spider to the fly.'"

She led the way into the hollow. A brazier of burning logs stood on the side nearest the river, with a saucepan simmering upon it. Close under the wild-rose bush was a folding table covered with a blue-and-white cloth laid in readiness for a meal, with a camp stool on either side. From an overhanging branch dangled a paper Japanese lantern, glowing in the blue dusk like a jewel.

"You're a witch, Betty," said the India-rubber Man. "Where did you get the lantern?"

"At that village we passed through yesterday. It was a surprise for you!" She made a little obeisance on the threshold of their star-lit dining-room. "Will it please my lord to be seated?" she asked prettily, and bending down busied herself amid the ashes underneath the brazier. "There's grilled trout and stewed bunny-rabbit," she added, speaking over her shoulder.

"Good enough," said her lord. "Sit down, Bet, I'm going to do the waiting." Betty laughed. "I don't mind this sort of waiting," she replied. "It's the other kind that grew so wearisome."

They made their meal while a bat, attracted by the white cloth, flickered overhead, and the shadows closed in round them, deepening into night. When the last morsel of food had vanished the India-rubber Man turned sideways on his stool to light a pipe, and by the light of the match they stared at one another with a sudden fresh realisation of their present happiness and the fullness thereof.

"Isn't it good?" said Betty. "Isn't it worth almost anything to have this peace?" She made a little gesture, embracing the scented quiet. "And just us two … alone."

The India-rubber Man tossed the match on to the turf where it burned steadily in a little circle of warm light.

"Yes," he said. "Just us two … Hark, Betty!" He held up his finger.

For a moment they listened to the infinitesimal noises of the night, straining their ears in the stillness. The river wound past them with a faint, sibilant sound like a child chuckling in its sleep; an owl hooted somewhere in the far-off sanctuary of the trees. Betty drew her breath with a little sigh that was no louder than the rustle of the bat's wings overhead. The match burning on the grass beside them flared suddenly and went out.

"You know," said the India-rubber Man presently, "I was thinking to-night—up there, along the river—how good it all is, this little old England of ours. I sat on a big boulder and watched a child in the distance driving some cows across a meadow to be milked…. There wasn't a leaf stirring, and the only sounds were the sleepy noises of the river…. It was all just too utterly peaceful and good." The India-rubber Man puffed his pipe in silence for a moment. "It struck me then," he went on in his slow, even tones, "that any price we can pay—any amount of sacrifice, hardship, discomfort—is nothing as long as we keep this quiet peace undisturbed…." Again he lapsed into silence, as if following some deep train of thought; the sound of the donkey cropping the grass came from the other side of the bush.

"One doesn't think about it in that way—up there," he jerked his head towards the North. "You just do your job for the job's sake, as one does in peace-time. Even the fellows who die, die as if it all came in the day's work." His mind reverted to its original line of thought. "But even dying is a little thing as long as all this is undefiled." He smoked in silence for a minute.

"Death!" he continued jerkily, as if feeling for his ideas at an unaccustomed depth. "I've seen so much of Death, Betty: in every sort of guise and disguise, and I'm not sure that he isn't only the biggest impostor, really. A bogie to frighten happiness…. A turnip-mask with a candle inside, stuck up just round some corner along the road of life."

"You never know which corner it is, though," said Betty. She nodded her head like a wise child. "That's why it's frightening—sometimes."

For a while longer they talked with their elbows on the table and their faces very close, exchanging those commonplace yet intimate scraps of philosophy which only two can share. Then the India-rubber Man fetched a pail of water from the river, and together they washed up.

"I met Clavering away up the river this evening," he said presently. "He said they'd come down after supper and bring the banjo," and as he spoke they heard the murmur of voices along the river bank. Two figures loomed up out of the darkness and entered the circle of light from the brazier.

"Good hunting!" said a girl's clear voice. "Garry was feeling musically inclined, and so we brought the Joe with us."

The India-rubber Man returned from the direction of the tent, carrying rugs and coats which he proceeded to spread on the ground.

"We're pushing on to-morrow," continued Clavering's deep voice. "There are some lakes in the hills we want to reach while this fine weather lasts. What are your movements, Standish? Keep somewhere near us, so that we can have our sing-songs of an evening sometimes."

"We'll follow," replied the India-rubber Man. "Nebuchadnezzar ought to have a day's rest to-morrow, and then we'll pick up the trail. Your old caravan oughtn't to be difficult to trace. Did you do any good on the river this evening…?"

They settled down among the rugs, and for a while the conversation ran on the day's doings. Then Etta Clavering drew her banjo from its case. "What shall we have?" she asked, fingering the strings: and without further pause she struck a few opening chords and began in her musical contralto:

"Under the wide and starry sky…"

The slow, haunting melody floated out into the night, and Betty, seated beside her husband, felt his hand close firmly over hers as it rested among the folds of the rug. The warm glow of the fire lit the faces of the quartette and the white throat of the singer.

"Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill…"

The last notes died away, and before anyone could speak the banjo broke out into a gay jingle, succeeded in turn by an old familiar ballad in which they all joined. Then Clavering cleared his throat and in his deep baritone sang:

"Sing me a song of a lad that is gone
Over the hills to Skye,"

A few coon songs followed, with the four voices, contralto and baritone, tenor and soprano, blending in harmony. Then Etta Clavering drew her fingers across the strings and declared it was time for bed.

"One more," pleaded Betty. "Just one more. You two sing."

Etta Clavering turned her head and eyed her husband; her eyes glittered in the starlight and there was a gleam of white teeth as she smiled. She tentatively thrummed a few chords.

"Shall we, Garry?"

Her husband nodded. "Yes," he said, "that one." He took his pipe from his mouth. "Go ahead…."

So together they sang "Friendship," that perfection of old-world romance which is beyond all art in its utter simplicity.

The banjo was restored to its case at length, and the singers rose to depart. Farewells were exchanged and plans for the future, while the four strolled together to the edge of the woods.

"Well," said Clavering, "we shall see you again the day after to-morrow, with any luck."

Etta Clavering turned towards Betty. "Isn't it nice to dare to look ahead as far as that?" she asked with a little smile. "Fancy! The day after to-morrow! Good night—good night!"

Betty and the India-rubber Man stood looking after them until they were swallowed by the darkness. Then he placed his arm round his wife's shoulders, and together they retraced their steps across the clearing towards the tent.

* * * * *

"This is the place," said the Young Doctor. He piloted his companion aside from the throng of Regent Street traffic and turned in at a narrow doorway. Pushing open a swing door that bore on its glass panels the inscription "MEMBERS ONLY," he motioned the First Lieutenant up a flight of stairs. "You wait till you get to the top, Number One," he said, "you'll forget you're ashore."

"Thank you," said the First Lieutenant as they ascended, "but I don't know that I altogether want to forget it."

They had reached the threshold of a small ante-room hung about with war-trophies and crowded with Naval officers. The majority were standing about chatting eagerly in twos and threes, while a girl with a tray of glasses steered a devious course through the crush and took or fulfilled orders. Through an open doorway beyond they caught a glimpse of more uniformed figures, and the tobacco-laden air hummed with Navy-talk and laughter.

The Young Doctor hung his cap and stick on the end of the banisters and elbowed his way to the doorway, exchanging greetings with acquaintances.

"Come in here," he said over his shoulder to the First Lieutenant, "and let's see if there's anyone from the ship—hullo! I didn't expect to see this——" He made a gesture towards the empty fireplace. There, seated upon the club-fender, with his right hand in his trousers pocket and his expression of habitual gloom upon his countenance, sat Mouldy Jakes. His left sleeve hung empty at his side, and from the breast of a conspicuously new-looking monkey-jacket protruded a splint swathed about in bandages. A newly-healed scar showed pink across his scalp.

A laughing semi-circle sat round apparently in the enjoyment of some anecdote just concluded. A Submarine Commander of almost legendary fame stood by the fender examining something in a little morocco case. Mouldy Jakes turned a melancholy eye upon the newcomers.

"More of 'em," he said in tones of dull despair. "What d'you want—Martini or Manhattan?"

"Martini," replied the Young Doctor, advancing, "both of us; but why this reckless hospitality, Mouldy? Are you celebrating an escape from the nursing home?"

The Submarine man closed the case with a little snap and handed it back to Mouldy Jakes.

"We're just celebrating Mouldy's acquisition of that bauble," he explained. "He's been having the time of his life at Buckingham Palace all the morning."

"Not 'arf," confirmed the hero modestly. "Proper day-off, I've been having!" He raised his voice. "Two more Martinis an' another plain soda, please, Bobby."

The First Lieutenant laughed.

"Who's the soda water for—me?"

Mouldy shook his head lugubriously.

"No," he replied, "me. There was another bird there this morning being lushed up to a bar to his D.S.O.—an R.N.R. Lieutenant called Gedge. What you'd call a broth of a boy. We had lunch together afterwards." The speaker sighed heavily and passed his hand across his forehead. "I think we must have had tea too," he added meditatively.

The Young Doctor looked round the laughing circle of faces. "Where is he? Did you bring him along with you?"

Mouldy Jakes shook his head and reached out for his soda water. "No … he went to sleep…."

The Young Doctor sat down on the fender beside the speaker. "How's the hand getting on, old lad?"

"Nicely, what's left of it. They let me out without a keeper now. Had a good leave? When d'you go back?"

"To-morrow," replied the First Lieutenant with a sigh. "Buck up and get well again, Mouldy, and come back to us. We're all going North to-morrow night, Gerrard and Tweedledum, and Pills here … and all the rest of 'em. You'd better join up with the party!" He spoke in gently chaffing, affectionate tones. "I don't think we can spare you, old Sunny Jim."

"No," said Mouldy Jakes dryly; "but unfortunately that's what the rotten doctors say." He rose to his feet and extended his uninjured hand, "S'long, Number One! I've got to get back to my old nursing home or I'll find myself on the mat…. S'long, Pills. Give 'em all my love, and tell 'em I'm coming back all right when the plumbers have finished with me." He stopped at the doorway and turned, facing the group round the fireplace.

"I guess you couldn't do without your Little Ray of Sunshine!" His wry smile flitted across his solemn countenance and the next moment he was gone.