His Majesty's ship ——, suddenly seized with the hospitable desire to entertain her sister ships, decided forthwith on theatricals. Nothing so banal as any already familiar piece by a "pukka" playwright was contemplated.... A combination of fertile naval brains produced the book of the words crammed with topical and cryptic allusions; the music was borrowed from the latest comic operas and revues, and the actors were recruited mainly from the ranks of junior officers. Then in due course the following signal appeared in our gunroom: "Captain and Officers of H.M.S. —— request the pleasure of the company of Flag Officers, Captains, and Officers of the 4th B.S. at their Theatricals on board Gourko at 2000 (8 P.M.) to-night. Boats to be alongside at 2130 (11.30)."

Gourko was the ship in which all such entertainments were held, and the above was the usual form of invitation issued to the Grand Fleet.

Accordingly at 7.45 that evening two "G's" sounded, indicating that our boat was ready alongside to take such of us as were off duty to the show in question. About a dozen were able to avail themselves of the invite. The night was cloudy and a stiff breeze was blowing when we embarked. It was not at all the sort of evening when dwellers on the "beach" would be tempted to set out in open picket-boats to witness an amateur theatrical performance, but from long experience the Navy is inured to climatic conditions which would prove decidedly damping to the enthusiasm of their brethren ashore. As Hamlet says: "The play's the thing"—and Gott strafe the weather!

In about five minutes we drew alongside the gangway of H.M.S. ——, and having boarded her with due ceremony we were escorted down to her gunroom and there hospitably entertained with cigarettes and liquid refreshment until the time appointed for the fun to commence. Then we were piloted across to the Gourko, which was lying alongside. The forward hold of this ship serves as a theatre for the Fleet. A stage is erected at its after end, immediately in front of which are placed the arm-chairs sacred to Flag Officers and Captains. On the left is a small dais occupied by the band, and behind the arm-chairs are several tiers of very hard benches on which the less exalted ranks are accommodated.

When we arrived, the auditorium was already more than half filled with N.O.'s of varied ranks, and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke. The band was playing selections from a well-known revue, and a confused buzz and drone of conversation greeted our entrance.

As soon as the Admirals and four-stripers (Captains) had taken their seats, the band stopped playing and the curtain went up revealing the stage occupied by an agitated Lieutenant (he was a Midshipman in real life) pacing up and down what apparently represented the smoking-room of a very second-rate hotel, and anathematizing the exploits of a German spy, who, it would seem, laboured under the appalling cognomen of Stinkenstein!

Presently the Lieutenant was joined by his sweetheart—a lady designed to be beautiful—but the illusion was somewhat marred by the deep bass voice and blue shaven chin of the Snotty who had been cast for the part—presumably with more regard for his histrionic ability than for his physical fitness. In the best traditional stage manner the distracted lover confides his troubles to the sympathetic ear of the beauteous (?) maiden, with the additional information that he must shortly leave her and vanish once more behind the northern mists. Thereupon she informs him of her fixed determination to follow him, if needs be to the world's end—and in the meantime to obtain a position as V.A.D. in the officers' tea pavilion situated on one of the islands at the northern base! He greets this heroic resolve with a singular lack of enthusiasm, but the lady is not to be turned from her purpose, so they proceed to sing a highly sentimental duet, after which they leave the stage with arms lovingly intertwined.

Enter from the wings a smartly dressed marine, who informs the audience that he is on ten days' leave—and then from the left centre advances a lady's maid. They, too, prove to be lovers and promptly fall into each other's embrace. More sentimental business follows, until they are driven from the stage by a number of sandwichmen, who sing an amusing part-song about "Jenks's Vegetable Compound." Enter their foreman, who bustles them off to work, and the marine and lady's maid reappear and resume their amatory intercourse. They are soon again disturbed, this time by the Lieutenant's fiancÉe, who is also the lady's maid's mistress. Covered with confusion, the marine endeavours to hide under a quite inadequate arm-chair, while the maid mendaciously explains that he is merely a man come to hang pictures. Seizing this clue, he proceeds to remove all the pictures from the walls with much zeal and clatter, and then exit.

Now the lady confides to her maid her plan for keeping in touch with her lover, and invites her co-operation. The maid jumps at the idea, for is not the marine—by happy chance—in charge of those same ridiculous and preposterous tea-rooms! And the curtain falls on the first act.

After a short interval the stage is once more revealed, and now shows the aforesaid island at dawn. The tea-house is on the left, and in the foreground a group of pirates of the good old-fashioned melodramatic kind are lying noisily asleep. Their sentry goes around waking them by vigorous kicks. Then they breakfast on rum, and a heated argument takes place over the question of calling their formidable Chief. He, it appears, is afflicted in the morning hours with a shortness of temper highly dangerous to the health of any one to whose lot it falls to arouse him. Eventually one of them undertakes the job, and, having carefully removed a gigantic knobkerrie to a safe distance from his Chief's side, deals him a resounding smack on the most prominent part of his person. The pirate springs to his feet with a volley of strange oaths, kicks every one within reach, and shouts for his breakfast of rum. Refreshed and soothed thereby he calls for his Chief of Staff, Cuthbert Cut-throat, a lanky, pasty-faced villain, and together they go through a list of booty captured that month. This comprises many weird items, and its recital invokes roars of laughter from the audience. Then the pirate calls for his children, and there enter from the wings a Marine Lieutenant fearfully and wonderfully arrayed in a short, light blue pinafore, revealing bare and unmistakably masculine legs. This vision wears a tow-coloured wig and has its face heavily painted in imitation of a cheap doll. It is followed by an exceedingly small boy in a sailor suit, and also with bare legs, and we are given to understand that this is "her" twin brother. The Pirate Chief greets them with loud smacking kisses, but soon becoming bored with his prodigious offspring, he once more summons Cuthbert Cut-throat, and to him discourses in maudlin sentimentality of the virtues and graces of his last wife, whom he apparently murdered about a month before! Life without a wife he declares to be impossible, and announces his intention of filling the vacancy with the first likely looking "little bit of skirt" he comes across. Then the pirates strike camp, and disappear into a cave on the right of the stage. (No explanation forthcoming!)

(Isn't it silly! But it amuses us vastly all the same!)

Act III. Same Scene

Two naval Captains (Midshipmen in real life) are discovered seated at a table in front of the tea-house. From their conversation we gather that four important personages have arrived on a visit of inspection to the Fleet. They are the Rev. Reuben Reubenstein, and three Eastern Potentates—namely, the Jam of Butteria, the Nabob of Nowhere, and the Maharajah of Marmaladia!

Now enter two golf maniacs, in one of whom we recognize the Lieutenant of the first act. After the maddening manner of their kind they proceed to play their game over again, stroke for stroke, in conversation, to the infinite disgust and boredom of the naval Captains. Presently they shout for tea, and are served, to the utter dismay of her lover, by the beauteous fiancÉe. On recognizing her he completely loses his head, upsets the tea-table, reproaches her in agitated whispers, refers to the Captains as "silly old fools," and commits various other stage indiscretions. She wisely retires—and he continues to walk around soliloquizing, and apparently appealing to the audience for help and advice in the awkward predicament in which the too ardent lady has placed him! Finally he goes out, after having several times saluted the Captains first with one hand and then with the other.

Enter the Eminent Divine—a lanky, meek-looking person in spectacles. He is closely followed by the Eastern Potentates in flowing white robes. One of them wears a head-dress of bastard Turkish design; another has his face blackened and surmounted by a pointed black hat, rather like a witch's; and the third is crowned by a Parisian (?) confection profusely adorned with feathers. They greet the Captains with weird salutations, presumably Oriental in origin, and jabber to them in unintelligible tongues, and finally with them retire, apparently in complete agreement.

The stage is left to the Rev. Reuben Reubenstein, whose soliloquy soon reveals him as the Spy Stinkenstein. After indulging in a "Gott strafe" against England he yodels "Life in the Alps," and dances a breakdown in fine style, finally in his frenzy smashing his umbrella and both the tea-tables! Curtain.

Act IV. Same Scene

Evening: the lady is discovered sitting outside the tea-house with her maid. After a few moments of desultory conversation the maid is dismissed, and the lady awaits her lover.

Enter Stinkenstein, singing. The lady does not take the trouble to look round, but assumes—quite unwarrantably and regardless of grammar—"That's him." Stinkenstein comes up behind her, puts his arms round her neck, and is about to embrace her, when she discovers her mistake, and proceeds to tell him in nervous English exactly what she thinks of him.

Pirates emerge from the cave and surround them. The maid rushes out to rescue her mistress and is also captured. The pirates drag them into the cave. Enter the Lieutenant with a landing party to capture the pirates. He finds his fiancÉe's handkerchief on the ground, and asks Ordinary Seaman Gorblimey, in charge of landing party, if he has a detective among his men. A Hostility O.D. with a huge black moustache steps forward, lights an enormous pipe, and demands an overcoat and a bowler hat. Producing a gigantic magnifying-glass he detects stains of rum on the ground and deduces—pirates! The landing party then storms the cave with drawn cutlasses, and a fierce fight ensues, in which, of course, the sailors are triumphant and the pirates are captured. The sweethearts are reunited, and the Lieutenant recognizes Reubenstein as Stinkenstein the spy. The pirates are then liberated on the score of having been instrumental in the capture of Stinkenstein, and the leaders are decorated by the C.-in-C.! Grand finale to the tune of "The Bing Boys are here." Prolonged applause. Curtain.

The audience stands to "Attention" as the band plays "God Save the King"—and the show is over.

Then we all return to H.M.S. ——, where in wardroom and gunroom refreshments are provided. By this time it has turned out a very dirty night, a nasty sea is running, and it is too rough for picket-boats. Presently the stentorian voice of the quartermaster is heard in the officers' messes: "Fourth Battle Squadron's drifter alongside." And out of the warmth and light we all troop to the dark and cold upper deck, and make our way over to the theatre ship. Several drifters are alongside, and these are groaning and creaking under the impact of heavy seas. Icy spray is flying before the wind, and there is only a rope ladder to descend by. Time after time our drifter parts her securing lines and is blown away from the ship's side, or crashes into another astern. At last every one is safely aboard, but there is no shelter from the wind and spray, and ours is the last ship to be called at. Wet and shivering, we curse the weather, and question ruefully if it was really worth while to have gone to the show at all. But at last the drifter draws alongside and we hastily scramble up the rope ladder and make a bolt for the gunroom. A raid on the pantry results in a tin of mixed biscuits, for which we all scramble, and then, very thankfully, turn in.

Well, there you are! How would you like to go out to an amateur theatrical performance in an open picket-boat in wind and rain, and return in a drifter through raging seas in a full gale? What a life! Never mind! There's a good time coming, and as A. M. M. says in Punch: