Late on an afternoon in September a boy, wearing a naval mackintosh and a felt hat, came out of Torquay railway-station and hailed a cab. His figure, his voice, and his manner, which was nervous and a little self-conscious, suggested that his age was about eighteen. He took a handful of change out of his pocket, and, when he had selected from it, with momentary hesitation, a sixpence to give the porter who had brought his luggage, he cast over the few bystanders a look almost of resentment, as if he thought they had been watching and criticizing him. If an older man had intercepted this glance its character might have puzzled him. He would have asked himself how, in eighteen years, a boy, who had obviously known nothing of the poverty and hard usage that age the street urchin, could have made the discoveries about life which were reflected in the face he saw. Not that a man’s experience lay in this boy’s features; rather did he seem to have lost too early the swifter wisdom of a child. He had developed a faculty of suspicion before the years had taught him what he should suspect. He had faced sorrow before he had learned to distinguish clearly between sorrow and bitterness. A child’s pride and the humility that springs from discipline; a love of freedom and an acquaintance with restriction; a hatred of cruelty and a knowledge of its refinements—all these had been mingled in him to the destruction of simplicity. He stood there, on the outskirts of the strange naval world into which this cab was to bear him, a boy whose premature manhood might have caused a perceptive woman to fear for him. She would have seen that he was not physically delicate, and have been glad that his body, at any rate, had power to endure; but she would have noticed, too, and trembled for her discovery, that the boy’s lips and eyes suggested an imagination which could throw ugliness as well as beauty into relief.

The cabman, his face screwed up and his cheeks blown out as a protest against the driving rain, looked queerly at the luggage he was hoisting on to his roof. It consisted of a green canvas trunk, bound with wooden splines and leather, and an oblong tin case. Their pattern, which the cabman recognized as uniform, betrayed at once their owner’s calling, for they differed in nothing but the name they bore from the boxes that were invariably brought with them by midshipmen joining their ships. On them was printed in white letters:

JOHN LYNWOOD, R.N.

“You’ll be goin’ to the ’otel, sir, same as the others, I expec’?”

“Yes; you recognize the luggage?” Lynwood answered.

“Ay, sir. It ain’t often the young officers joins their ships ’ere in Torquay, but I knows that tin box an’ the green one, sir, as if they was my own. There’s no mistakin’ ’em.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I’d just done with three other young gentlemen,” the cabman went on, “when I came back to the stand to catch more of ’em off this train.”

“Well, you’ve caught one,” Lynwood said, with a smile at the phrase.

“The mare, she’s bin servin’ ’is Majesty to-day, she ’as. Old army pensioner, she is.” He shook a stream of water from his oilskin cape and ran his hand over his dripping beard. “Old sailor meself, sir,” he remarked, as he picked up the reins.

Lynwood settled himself among the thin cushions as the cab’s loose wheels rattled into the street. This, in his childhood’s dreams, was to have been the beginning of adventure—this “going to sea.” It was not thus he had imagined it. The books he had read had conjured up pictures of bright sunshine and blue water, of admirals who welcomed the new-comer in a fatherly manner, of petty officers whose ambition it was to teach him knots, splices, and cutlass drill. All this was to have been but a prelude to a life among friends, who would share with him glories, perils, and promotion, and whose kindliness would make all things pleasant for him in strange and gaily coloured lands. And now, looking forward, he saw none of these delights. His experience at Osborne and Dartmouth and, above all, in the training cruiser had taught him what he might reasonably expect. He had done well as a cadet. He had taken firsts in his passing-out examinations, and—for what it was worth—had been a Cadet Captain in both colleges. There was no reason why his promotion should not be as rapid as that of any of his contemporaries. But the element of romance had to be excluded—unless there were a war. Those who had lived through it had given him to understand, with a clearness that could permit of no further disillusionment, that the naval officer’s life was as mechanical and monotonous as that of a book-keeping clerk. There were drills and watches, tactical exercises and coaling. There was a discipline of iron, and a requirement, equally inelastic, of absolute efficiency. Faults were not pardoned nor weaknesses forgotten. Motive was a matter of small account, for only success and failure appeared on the final balance-sheet.

This, Lynwood had come to recognize, was inevitable in a service conducted with one object alone, the object of victory in battle. Never, even in the bitterest of criticisms, had he heard one word against the Navy’s efficiency. It was a perfect machine, as inhuman as a machine, as pitiless as perfection. The object of its training was the production of a war personnel, and this implied the production of human beings who possessed certain definite qualities and in whom certain qualities were not found. If a required quality were lacking it had to be instilled; if a surplus quality were present it had to be removed. The process was often painful. Not infrequently men were broken by it, and went; or rebelled against it in their hearts, and went likewise. Many, though broken, were forced by circumstances to remain.

Lynwood remembered having asked the officer who had given him this summary of the naval system how it was, then, that so many of the officers he had met at the colleges had been visibly happy, and, within certain limits, contented. “To start with,” his informant had replied, “the officers who are appointed to Osborne and Dartmouth are picked men—men who, because they were born with most of the required qualities, haven’t had their natures badly damaged. The colleges are star billets. You don’t meet there—or, for that matter, in the society from which most civilians draw their conclusions—the two and a half stripe salt-horses who will never become commanders or the engineers who have sweated their souls out for the sake of a family which attains the ultimate glory of a Portsmouth suburb—in short, the underworld of H.M.S. And you don’t meet the drunks. But there’s another reason. The Service does its training young, on the principle of flog a dog while it’s a puppy. And if you get through that stage—well, you’re probably shaped to the mould like the Chinese women’s feet, and you forget, and it doesn’t do you any fresh hurt. But if you break while the pressure is being applied, you break—that’s all. A good thing you broke so soon. If you can’t afford to leave it, the Service has your measure. It knows you broke, and your promotion is not rapid.... Of course,” he added, “there are a few who are neither broken nor shaped. They go on in the Navy, successful up to a point, dabbling in something else they might have been masters of. Or else they go—often too late.”

And now Lynwood looked forward to the inevitable pressure of the mould. It was applied, he knew, to junior officers for the Service’s and their own good. The customary phrase was: “Junior snotties must be shaken.” The system was unofficial; indeed, its more obvious extremes had been expressly forbidden; but it was a recognized system, of whose existence the whole Navy was aware. No protest against it—and this had been particularly impressed on cadets—would gain any sympathy from any rank. So the Navy had been created, and so it must continue. Conditions, said the senior officers, were much better than in Nelson’s time—much better, indeed, than in their own days as midshipmen. Comparatively, modern midshipmen were wrapped up in cotton-wool. The senior officers, in their Wardroom armchairs, didn’t know what the Service was coming to!

Some captains, it was rumoured, made a stand against the system in their own ships, on the ground that it was not, in fact, essential to the efficiency of the Service. Some sub-lieutenants, too—and they had more control in this matter than any captain—stood out against the system in their own Mess, simply because cruelty disgusted them. But these well-intentioned people dared not proselytize. They resisted the system quietly within their own domain, and, lest they should be considered old women, said as little as possible about their resistance. Their number was said to be increasing. Whether a junior midshipman did or did not experience the extremes of the system depended nowadays on the ship to which he was appointed and the sub-lieutenant who ruled his Gunroom. The system, to the accompaniment of the shaking of many conservative heads, was said to be dying.

But it was by no means dead. Lynwood had decided that, if he was subjected to it, the system should not break him. After all, its greatest violence was unlikely to last more than a year. In his second year he would be partly exempt from it; in his third, he would be in a position to enforce it, if he wished, upon others.

The cab drew up at the hotel door. As he stood on the pavement fumbling for money he looked out across the harbour. The railings were jewelled with raindrops. Beyond them a sea of dull green tossed itself into livid foam and spray. Further from shore all colour was lost. No horizon was distinguishable from the opaque sky. Once he thought there became visible the ghostly form of a warship, infinitely lonely and apart, but a moment later he could see nothing.

“Good luck t’ee, sir,” said the old sailor, and, as the boy turned towards the hotel, he added under his breath: “And Gawd ’elp ’ee.”

Lynwood heard, and looked over his shoulder. Then he pulled himself together, gave his instructions to the hall-porter and walked quickly into a ground-floor sitting-room, to the door of which was attached a temporary notice written in blue chalk:

REEVE & CO.

Mr. Reeve, though he had never held a commission, was one of the great personalities of the Navy. He described himself as a tailor and outfitter, but he was more than that. He had taken charge of Lynwood—as of almost all cadets—from the beginning of his career. From Mr. Reeve’s descriptive pamphlet Lynwood and his father had drawn their first ideas of life at Osborne, at Dartmouth, and at sea. A telegram signed Reeve had told of success in the entrance examination long before any official intimation had been received. Reeve had advised as to equipment, and had provided it. Reeve had been on the Portsmouth jetty to explain the intricacies of a strange uniform on that great day when seventy new cadets were inspected by an admiral before they crossed the Solent to Osborne and their destiny. Nothing seemed outside Mr. Reeve’s scope. He had made himself responsible for the transport of the great sea-chests from Osborne to Dartmouth, and from Dartmouth to the training cruiser. He had laboured exceedingly in things large and small, and had prospered exceedingly. And now, here was his representative, again in charge of the sea-chests and the luggage, prepared to aid his charges as they entered upon the next great stage of their careers. A room had been taken and a placard attached to the door. Within was Mr. Binney, “Reeve’s man,” helping the midshipmen to change the plain clothes in which they had travelled for the Number One uniform, with dirks, in which they were to join their ship. Mr. Binney unpacked and repacked their bags for them. He undertook the sending of telegrams for things forgotten. He answered innumerable questions, and, with an odd sympathy which showed he knew they had cares enough, promised to have their luggage taken to the landing stage at which the King Arthur’s boat would call. Certainly, sir, the luggage would be there in plenty of time. Where were the sea-chests? Already, as if by a miracle, they were at the head of the steps. In the rain? Yes, but they would come to no harm. Had all the young gentlemen got the keys of their sea-chests? It would be awkward to arrive on board and not be able to open them. In case any young gentleman had forgotten or should lose his key, he had a skeleton which would open any chest. Perhaps they would not mind sharing it?... Yes, he had heard that the King Arthur’s captain was a very good captain; and the rear-admiral—of course, everyone knew that he was one of the coming men: not that the captain or the admiral would make much difference to them.... Before long they would have to coal ship....

Mr. Binney had remarkable information. Moreover, he talked and made discreet jokes to such effect that silences, in which there might have been time to think, were pleasantly avoided.... Was it true that Mr. Reeve had a son who was going to enter the Service? Ah! that he didn’t know. Was the sub of the King Arthur a good fellow? That he couldn’t say. Mr. Binney knew exactly what things he ought to know and say. Personalities—save in a complimentary context—were to him an abomination.

Lynwood found that he was absurdly sorry for Mr. Binney—so eager, so capable, so warm-hearted a man and yet a tailor’s assistant! What, in the terms of this world, was his reward for all these excellencies? Lynwood pictured the little man’s family, the boy for whose education he had saved, the girl for whose happy marriage he was already laying plans. What were Mr. Binney’s castles in the air? He was too good a man to have none.... Then Lynwood’s thoughts shifted abruptly. He became envious of Mr. Binney, who would not have to go into that bleak ship, who would return comfortably to London—though it were in a third-class compartment—who would dine that evening among friends, who would sleep that night, not in a strange hammock, but in a familiar bed. Mr. Binney’s future was at least certain. Lynwood glanced at his kindly eyes. He saw the beads of perspiration which much stooping had produced upon his red forehead. Mr. Binney was tired, very tired.

Three other midshipmen—Sentley, Cunwell, and Fane-Herbert—were in the room when Lynwood arrived. He knew them all intimately, for they had served their training as cadets in his term. Sentley was small, dark, and a little pompous in manner. An unimaginative conscientiousness was written plainly on his face. Cunwell was of a heavier type, square headed, square bodied, and coarse skinned. He had loose lips that were usually wet, and self-assurance that was aggressive. He possessed, however, a certain force, not of intellect—for his flat, almost concave, forehead proclaimed his stupidity—but of personality, a personality impervious to satire. It was not his habit to think more deeply than mere physical action demanded. He was neither an observer of himself nor an analyst of others. To him nothing was a symbol, everything a fact. He treated the mind with suspicious hostility, as if it derived its strength from witchcraft and the evil powers. Mental capacity seemed to him no more than an unfair advantage over himself exercised by others in examination-rooms, and he did not allow himself to be troubled by his own deficiency in this respect. He brushed it aside characteristically. “You brainy fellows will soon learn that exams don’t count for much.”

In Fane-Herbert the effect of good breeding was conspicuous. When he smiled, his small white teeth and dancing eyes could not fail to cast a spell. In anger he became cold and aloof, refusing the easy relief of passion. He faced injustice and humiliation with an air of scornful pride which served him ill by irritating his oppressors. Intellectually he was unremarkable; but he was expert in all physical exercises that required quickness of eye and subtlety of wrist rather than force and speed. His whole manner was slow, almost languid. His reserve was not easily pierced, and only to his most intimate friends would he speak of himself. Upon the rest of the world he looked calmly, seeming scarcely to expect that others would be interested in him. Lynwood knew him well, liked him well, admired him for a dozen qualities; but he felt that in Fane-Herbert there was an element, not deliberately concealed, which was, however, never fully in the light of day, and therefore not entirely comprehensible.

“How did you get here?” Sentley asked. “You weren’t in our train, Lynwood?”

“No, I came across country—not from London.”

“Did any of the others come with you—Driss, or Dyce, or any of the senior snotties?”

“No, I came alone.”

“They’ll come by a later train,” Cunwell declared. “They can go off by the seven o’clock officers’ boat. You bet the senior snotties anyhow won’t go on board before they must. I shouldn’t have come so early myself, but——”

“Aren’t the senior snotties on board already?” Fane-Herbert asked.

“No, of course not,” explained Cunwell, who knew everything. “The five senior snotties are also joining the King Arthur to-day. Didn’t you know? They’ve been doing their destroyer time, and things like that. Now they are coming back to a big ship for a year before their lieutenant’s exams. But I believe there are four intermediate snotties there already—second year people, one year senior to us.”

“I expect they won’t be too pleased with the seniors’ coming,” Sentley remarked.

“Oh, they’ll take it out of us,” Fane-Herbert said.

Lynwood was talking to Mr. Binney, and beginning to undress preparatory to getting into uniform. His round-jacket was lying on the table. Cunwell picked it up, and ostentatiously examined its sleeves.

“I say, Lynwood,” he said, “I can see the marks where your Cadet Captain’s stripe has been.”

“Can you? I can’t help it.”

“Well, I shouldn’t let the senior snotties see it, if I were you. My brother told me that when he went to sea for the first time, one of the snotties who were with him had the marks of his stripes showing, and he got a dozen cuts once a week till they disappeared—just to teach him that Cadet Captains at Dartmouth have got to learn their place when they go to sea.”

Lynwood, who was well aware that Cunwell had been bitterly disappointed because he had never been made a Cadet Captain himself, knew what triumph lay beneath the friendly appearance of his warning. Cunwell delighted to impress upon him the indisputable fact that he had fallen from relatively high estate.

“Well, I expect you are glad now, Cunwell,” he said, “that you were never made a Cadet Captain? You won’t get beaten once a week—not for that reason, at any rate.”

“All right,” Cunwell exclaimed angrily, “you needn’t be sarcastic about nothing. I thought you would like to know; and then you lose your temper because I warn you. You are an extraordinary fellow! My brother——”

“Oh!” Fane-Herbert interrupted. “For four years and a half we’ve heard about your brother. You told me all about him the first night we were at Osborne.”

“You’re another of the Cadet Captains. Are the marks of your stripes showing?... At any rate, my brother is one of the best officers in the Service. The men love him.”

“I dare say.”

Sentley, as did all save Cunwell, resented this wrangling. To him it was as if prisoners insulted one another on their way to the scaffold. Moreover, youthfully conscious of his dignity as a naval officer, he felt that such disputes were not for the ears of Mr. Binney.

“It doesn’t really matter now,” he said mildly. And then, determined to be cheerful at all costs, he added: “Do you think we shall get leave at Christmas?” and Fane-Herbert echoed him: “It doesn’t really matter now.”

But the question set Lynwood looking across the months. “It’s a long way off,” he said.

“Not longer than a Dartmouth term.”

“No.”

“But you won’t get four weeks’ leave, as you did at Dartmouth,” Cunwell said. “Of course, snotties sometimes get both watches of leave, but I shouldn’t count on it.”

“Don’t you want leave?” Lynwood asked.

“Of course I do; but I’m not so damned homesick already as you are.”

There seemed to be no reply to this, so silence fell for a moment. Mr. Binney interposed quickly:

“The King Arthur’s pretty good about leave, I think.”

“Is she?” Cunwell turned on the others. “One might think you fellows weren’t keen on the Service. Don’t you want to go to sea?”

“Why not wait till you get there?” Fane-Herbert said coldly.

“Yes, you just wait!” Cunwell warned them. “I can tell you, Fane-Herbert, your smiles and your cricket won’t help you there; nor your English and x-chasing, Lynwood. That isn’t the kind of thing Commanders look for.”

Even Cunwell’s voice became less strident when at last they had left Mr. Binney with their luggage, and, under his directions, had gone into the street. Their best uniform, in which they were bound to report themselves on board, added to the discomfort caused by wind and rain. Soon their trousers were wet to the knee.

“I say,” said the careful Sentley, “do you think the Commander will mind our trousers being like this?”

“I can’t help the Commander’s troubles,” Fane-Herbert answered. “What makes me swear is that our cap badges will get spoilt.”

“What do our cap badges matter? You should see my brother’s cap, and he says——” Derisive applause checked him.

“Do you hear the water from the gutter roaring below that grating?” Lynwood said.... “Those must be the steps. Yes, I can see our chests standing there.”

Sentley stopped suddenly outside a Chemist’s shop. “I say, hold on a minute. I want some shaving soap.”

They turned to look at him. “Oh, Sentley, do you have to shave now?” and they laughed good-humouredly till the colour rose to his cheeks.

“I shall have to very soon—at any rate, for Sunday Divisions. Will you wait for me while I get it, Lynwood?”

“Don’t stand about in this deluge,” Cunwell put in. “The messman will keep shaving soap. Most messmen do. You can get it in the ship if you want it.”

They left the chemist unvisited, and pressed on to the head of the landing-steps. Here they wrapped their mackintoshes round them and sat down on the wet lids of their chests. Someone began to drum his heels against the painted wood.

“If you kick off all the paint,” said Cunwell promptly, “you’ll be in the soup at Captain’s inspection.”

The heels stopped, and silence fell. Presently their luggage was brought on a barrow chartered by Mr. Binney. The sea was splashing and hissing on the stone steps. In a little time, out of the mist of rain, the bows and funnel of a picket-boat became visible.

“That’s our boat,” said Cunwell at once. “She has a sailing pinnace in tow—that’s for our chests.”

A bell rang clearly four times; the engines slowed. It rang once, and the throb of machinery ceased; the tow-rope slackened.

“Cast off the pinnace! Take the pinnace inside, coxswain. I’ll come outside you.”

“Aye, aye, sir!... Get them fenders out, Micky.”

The picket-boat’s engines roared astern as the midshipman brought her bows round in readiness to come alongside the pinnace. In a couple of minutes both boats were in position.

“Are you the snotties for the King Arthur?”

“Go on, Sentley, you are senior—you answer.”

“Yes,” shouted Sentley.

“Down into the boat, then.... No, not in the pinnace. Get into the picket-boat’s cabin.”

They clambered across as they were bid.

“This must be one of the intermediate snotties,” Lynwood said to Fane-Herbert.

“Yes. Don’t you remember him at Dartmouth? Ollenor?”

“Ollenor, is it? I haven’t seen his face yet under his sou’wester.”

The picket-boat’s cabin was divided into two parts—an outer section, comfortable, light, and clean, which in fair weather was adorned no doubt with white-covered cushions with blue crests; and an inner section, dark and ill-ventilated, wherein were kept signal lamps and all manner of spare fittings. They seated themselves in the outer section because they came to it first.

“Do you think we ought to sit here? Suppose some officers come down?” Sentley suggested. In the training cruiser it had been the custom for cadets to sit on the cabin’s roof.

“Well, so long as there is room for them it’s all right,” Fane-Herbert said; “and if there isn’t room, then we can go into that inner cabin. I’m not going out on to the roof in this weather and these clothes.”

“Yes.... I know that sounds reasonable enough, but don’t you think that, as we are junior snotties just joining the ship, it would be better to move off into the inner cabin anyhow if any officers come—whether there is room for them or not. You see, there isn’t much space where we are, and it might get us a bad name to start off with, and——”

“And you are the senior of us,” Lynwood laughed. “Poor Sentley! The sins of us all will be visited on you as well as on ourselves.... Let’s move in if any officers come. It’s as well to be on the safe side.”

While they spoke the boat’s crew were getting their sea-chests down into the sailing pinnace.

“Any more to come?” Ollenor shouted.

“All on board, sir.”

“The luggage too?”

“All on board, sir.”

“All right. Jump in.... Pinnace, get your painter aft, and shove your bows out.”

At this moment a thin, pale man, wearing a bowler hat, appeared at the top of the steps and began to descend them with what speed their slipperiness would permit.

“Hold on,” said Ollenor.

The man came across the pinnace and jumped into the picket-boat’s cabin. Sentley glanced at him, hesitated a moment, and then retired into the inner cabin, whither the others followed him.

“Who do you think that is?”

“An engineer, probably.”

“But does even an engineer officer go ashore in a bowler hat?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe it’s an officer at all.”

“It must be. He’s wearing plain clothes.”

“At any rate, we are on the safe side—coming in here,” said Sentley.

The atmosphere was vile. The little fixed windows were flush with the upper deck. Through them could be seen, now the grey sky, now the brown, hardened feet of one of the crew. Ollenor’s voice repeated his former orders; the bell rang, and the engines turned slowly. Then the tow-rope grew taut, the pinnace swung out abruptly, and both boats circled towards the open sea. Land and the old life receded. Through the narrow stern door of the inner cabin, beyond the pale face and the bowler hat and the tiller vibrating above the propellor, beyond the tow-rope and the sailing pinnace, which came sometimes into sight as the helm swung over, Lynwood could see the hazy outlines of the roofs of Torquay. Soon a change of course banished even these from view. Lynwood found himself longing for respite, for a break in this dream that brought them nearer and nearer to the ship. He wanted the tow-rope to part! His eyes travelled to it as if there were a chance of its doing so. But no god intervened.... No word was spoken. They sat still, avoiding each other’s eyes. Soon Ollenor’s voice was heard once more shouting instructions to the sailing pinnace. The engine-room bell rang, and rang again. The propellor cast up new foam, and the picket-boat quivered as they went astern. And now they rocked at the foot of the King Arthur’s port after gangway.

The pale man stood aside that they might be the first to leave the boat, but they had no eyes for that. As they reached the quarter-deck they saluted as they had been taught, and looked round for the officer of the watch to whom they should report themselves. His childish pictures of a shining sunlit quarter-deck flashed irresistibly across Lynwood’s mind. Here the planks were stained to dark patches by the rain. The turret, with its unbroken surface of flat grey, wore a hard blank expression, which was somehow similar to that of an intolerant and dull-minded human being. Ropes, cheesed down into neat spirals on the deck, were black and sodden with wet. Over all, casting its shadowy gloom on brass and steel, lay the sloped awning, from whose edges the rain dripped and splashed with miserable monotony. The quarter-deck was like a vast gymnasium, bare, and cold, and sombre.

Ollenor had followed them up the gangway, and stood now in conversation with the midshipman of the watch.

“Can the picket-boat make fast and go to tea?”

“Yes; you have nothing, so far as I know, till the seven o’clock trip.”

“Come on, you fellows,” said Ollenor; “you’d better come and report yourselves to the Commander. Then come along to the Mess.... There’s the Commander’s cabin.”

Sentley knocked.

“Yes?”

Sentley took off his cap, drew back the curtain, and went in. The others were following him when the Commander broke out: “Who are you?”

“We’ve come on board to join, sir.”

“Speak for yourself.... And you in the rear there, stand at attention! What do you mean by lolling about in my cabin?” No answer was expected or given. “Who told you to come into my cabin? Get out of it. When I say ‘Come in,’ come in—not before.”

They withdrew, and Sentley knocked again.

“Come in.... Well? Don’t stand there like a dumb thing! What do you want, boy?”

“We’ve come on board to join, sir.”

“Will you speak for yourself? Now, report yourselves properly, one by one. What’s your name?”

“Sentley, sir.”

“Are you the senior?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are these all the junior midshipmen? I thought we were to have six of you.”

“Two haven’t come off yet, sir.”

“Send them to me when they do. And see they know how to behave themselves before they come into my cabin. Understand?” The others then gave their names in turn. “Very well,” the Commander went on, “clear out now. I dare say I shall learn your names as soon as you care for. Go on—out of it!”

The last command was shouted at them. It rang in their ears as they walked towards the Gunroom.

“I wonder if he’s always like that?”

“Lots of Commanders are half mad with over-work,” Cunwell said. “They chase everyone—lower deck, snotties, Wardroom—everyone.”

“But have you ever heard anything so absolutely without cause?” asked Lynwood; “a screaming rage all about nothing.”

“It’s part of the system, I suppose,” said Fane-Herbert, “and all for the good of the Service. It’s no good to take it too seriously.”

II

When the midshipmen had left his cabin the Commander picked up his pen and stooped once more over the letter he was writing to his wife.

“... Means more drive,” he wrote. “All one’s life is an amazing drive. The R.A. never tires. He must be made of iron. It is his affectation—” The Commander crossed out the sentence and wrote: “He considers it necessary to be entirely unsparing of himself and others. It’s like running a mile race at a hundred yards’ pace. He acts as if there were going to be a war to-morrow. Of course, we all act similarly—and that means a smart ship. But if you knew how I should like to relax the pressure on the men—even for one day! But what the R.A. does we must all do. I have that promotion to think of that you and I are waiting for.

“When you met the R.A. you thought him charming, didn’t you? And so he was. You should see him in the ship. And I hope you think me even more charming than the R.A.? You should see me in the ship. I wonder if the men think I am always like this. I’m sure the snotties do. I’ve just cursed some new ones till they fled, and I suppose they think—and I don’t wonder—that I’m an inhuman beast. What’s more, I’m afraid they won’t ever have much cause to think otherwise. I shall curse them and drive them whenever I see them—just as the Admiral, a bit more politely, drives me. (It doesn’t hurt me, because I can see through it all.) It must be done. It really is necessary. Probably the R.A. excuses himself to his wife on the grounds that the Vice-Admiral drives him, and so on up to My Lords Commissioners at Whitehall, who would put the responsibility on the Germans, and they return it. It is a circle!

“I’m sorry. I oughtn’t to fill all my letter to you with grousing. The Service is a fine service, and Peter shall go into it if you’ll trust him to Commanders even fiercer than myself. But we shall have to talk it over about Peter. I’m not quite sure that the Navy is the best place. Your father was an artist, and if any of that has come through to Peter—well, we eat artists. I know you want it—but then you know the Navy ashore, and you have a husband who is going to be an admiral, haven’t you? Do you know anything of the Jesuits of old time and their methods? I feel rather like them sometimes. But then, of course, the Service is a really fine ‘end’—that makes all the difference.

“When I come home....”

The midshipman of the watch tapped at the door. “Eight bells, sir.”

“Sound off!”

The bugle sounded. The pen worked quicker now. The last four words were crossed out.

“... I’ll write again. I want to get this letter ashore. I’m sending in an extra boat after Quarters. Quarters is sounding off now. I must go.”

He thrust on his cap and walked out on to the quarter-deck. Here the Marines and the Quarter-deck Division were falling in.

“Where’s the midshipman of the Quarter-deck Division?... Mr. Ollenor, in future you will come up from the Gunroom in time to see that your Division falls in smartly to the bugle. Look at them! They’re a damned disgrace!—all talking when I came.... Don’t answer me. Go to them.”

The Commander was shouting. He swung round on his heel to cover a queer smile. The sergeant-major, who missed nothing, wondered what joke there was; but he knew nothing of the Commander’s letter.

At that moment the Rear-Admiral emerged from his quarters. With his hands clasped behind him he walked to the after-rails and looked over the stern.

“Commander!”

“Sir!”

The Rear-Admiral pointed upwards to where the white ensign had become entangled with its staff. “Your ensign’s foul. It looks bad for the rest of the squadron.” Then he strolled away.

The Commander’s lips tightened. “Midshipman of the Watch!”

“Sir!” The midshipman came running, stopped and saluted.

“Look at that ensign—disgusting! The Admiral noticed it. Why can’t you keep your eyes open instead of standing about doing nothing? What do you think you are here for?”

“It was cleared a little time ago, sir. The wind——”

“Damn it! Don’t argue. It’s your job to see that it’s always clear. Don’t let me find it like that again, or your leave will suffer.”

He dashed for’ard, swinging a telescope. The midshipman knew his cue.

“Sideboy!” And the sideboy, a wizened little creature as yet too young to be an ordinary seaman, came running in his turn. “Look at that ensign! The Commander noticed it.”

The sideboy looked; and gulped while he summoned his excuse. “I cleared it just afore quarters, sir,” he said. “The rain an’ the wind——”

“It’s your job to see that it’s always clear. Understand?”

“Yessir.”

“And put your cap on straight.”

“Yessir.”

“Now go and clear the ensign. Get a move on!”

The midshipman tucked his telescope under his arm and watched for the Commander’s return.