Before they reached the Gunroom after their interview with the Commander, Lynwood and his companions met a tall midshipman, whom they immediately recognized.

“Hullo, are you the new snotties?” he asked. “I’m Reedham, three terms senior to you—probably you remember me at Dartmouth? You are Lynwood, aren’t you? Weren’t you the fellow that was made a Cadet Captain first shot?”

“Yes,” said Lynwood, and added quickly: “We’ve just come from the Commander.”

“Oh have you? Did he bite your heads off?”

“We seemed to do something wrong.”

“You always will seem to do something wrong whenever the Bloke’s about.... But where are you going now?”

“The Gunroom. Ollenor told us to go there when we had reported ourselves.”

“Well, I shouldn’t, if I were you. Quarters will be sounding off in a minute or two. You had better come up for them. Ten to one, if you don’t, the Bloke will jump on you for shirking. He’s bound to be on the look out. Really you ought to have twenty-four hours to sling your ’ammicks in—standing off all duties; but that theory is a back number with our people.... Are your chests on board yet?”

“No; they have only just come off in the sailing pinnace.”

“Then you’ll have to go to Quarters in the rig you have on. You ought really to change into monkey-jackets, of course. Anyway, I should unship those dirks. Chuck them down behind somebody’s chest for the time being—out of sight, though.”

When they had followed his advice they trailed behind Reedham on to the upper deck.

“Of course, you haven’t been told off for Divisions yet,” he said. “It won’t matter where you go this afternoon so long as the Bloke sees you somewhere. You come to the Foretopmen with me, Lynwood, and the remainder had better take a Division each.”

Under this friendly guidance they went through Quarters without mishap, and, immediately afterwards, went below with Reedham. On their way to the Gunroom they passed through the Chest Flat, an ill-lighted section of the main deck, flanked on the port side by cabins and on the starboard side by the Gunroom and the Gunroom pantry. The whole of the centre of the flat was occupied by the Engine-room casing, on either side of which passages led, for’ard to the men’s quarters, and aft to the half-deck. Through a door in the starboard passage they entered their new home.

The Gunroom was a long, very narrow room, about seven feet high, built almost entirely of steel. Its outboard wall was the curving side of the ship, and was pierced at intervals by scuttles, which visitors referred to as windows. Its inboard wall, which it had in common with the Chest Flat, contained the doors. The after-bulkhead was unbroken, and for’ard were the pantry hatch and the serving slab. The furniture, though not elaborate, occupied most of the floor space. A long, narrow, leather-cushioned seat, always called the settee, was attached to the ship’s side. Parallel to this a table was screwed to the deck. Between the doors stood a sideboard, covered with innumerable weekly and daily papers; and overhead, screwed to the walls, was a series of small wooden lockers, between which and the beams above were kept such sextants as were not for the moment in pawn. A stove, a few chairs, and a piano completed the Gunroom’s regular equipment.

The place had an air of hard usage, and bore witness in a thousand ways to the manner of its occupants’ lives. The only decorations were a few cheap prints, some of Transatlantic and some, perhaps, of German inspiration, representing ladies who were not merely insufficiently clothed, but who seemed, oddly enough, to have definitely completed their toilette when they had donned a pair of silk stockings or a diminutive undergarment. In their eyes invitation was conveyed by means of a formula, having no connection with art or life, which seldom fails to produce commercial profit. They hung there, eternally grinning, eternally brandishing their insistent legs, the remarkable substitute for womanhood which our generation has learned to recognize and accept. Near them, as if to throw them into overpowering contrast with reality, oilskins, which smelt strongly, hung with dirks and belts from pegs on the wall. The deck, the stove, and the settee were littered with papers, books, pipes, tobacco-tins and cigarette-ash. At the end of the table, on which cards, a dice-thrower, and a couple of empty glasses were grouped incongruously with teacups, the Sub was sitting.

“Hullo, Reedham,” he exclaimed, “who are your young friends?” Then he pointed a finger at Sentley. “You with the innocent face, are you the new warts?”

Not yet accustomed to this usual description of very junior midshipmen, Sentley hesitated before he answered: “Yes, sir!”

“Lord Almighty!” the Sub cried, smiling despite himself, “don’t call me ‘sir.’ Who the deuce taught you to call subs ‘sir’?”

“No one.”

“I should hope not.... Well, don’t do it again.”

“No; I’m sorry.”

“And don’t be so bloody polite. This isn’t a dame’s school.... Had some tea?”

The Sub pressed a bell that swung from a cord above his head. The pantry-hatch opened with a click, and a pale face appeared—the face of the man in the bowler hat to whom they had yielded place in the picket-boat.

“Tea for these officers, messman,” said the Sub.

Lynwood and Fane-Herbert exchanged glances, but they were careful to say nothing. They knew that they would be wise to keep the knowledge of their mistake locked away in their own hearts. But Cunwell perceived that he might score a point.

“I told you so, Lynwood,” he said, so that all might hear.

“What did you tell him?” the Sub asked, wondering if they had been betting against the Sub’s offering them tea.

“When we were coming off in the picket-boat,” Cunwell began, “the messman came down at the last moment, and”—Sentley kicked him vigorously, but he continued, nevertheless—“and Sentley and Lynwood and Fane-Herbert thought he was a Wardroom officer, and cleared out for him.”

Ollenor, Reedham, and Norgate, the midshipman who had kept the afternoon watch, roared with laughter at this.

“That’s good!” the Sub exclaimed. “The Wardroom would rejoice to know that Wickham was mistaken for one of themselves. And you—what’s your name?”

“Cunwell.”

“And you, Cunwell, what did you do?”

“Oh, I went with the rest of them; but, of course, I knew——”

“Of course you did. I see we have a smart young officer here, Ollenor, competing for a medal.”

The dog-watches passed without event. The Sub having gone to his cabin and the others on to the upper deck, Lynwood was left in the Gunroom with Reedham and Fane-Herbert. They fell at once to a discussion of personalities and prospects, and Reedham, wearing the quiet smile that was habitual to him, answered questions, volunteered information, and gasped at examples of ingenuousness. The Sub, it appeared, was named Winton-Black. Reedham described him as a good enough fellow if ever he did anything—which happened infrequently. He was to leave the ship in a few months’ time, and was careless of what happened in the interval. Almost all his spare time was spent in his cabin, so that he seldom appeared in the Gunroom except for meals.

“Then we ought to be all right,” said Fane-Herbert.

“Oh, don’t you believe it. You would be much better off, I assure you, if Winton-Black did put in an appearance. He’s an easygoing old thing, as lazy as they are made, and it would be too much effort for him to chase you much. But his being away leaves the senior snotties’ hands free, and the five seniors we are going to have include some pretty tough customers. I believe Krame, the senior of the lot, who will arrange all our duties and dispose our lives, is—well, Ollenor knows more of him than I do, and he says he’s as bad as we could hope for. Howdray has a name through the fleet—Bull Howdray. He’s usually tight, and pretty violent. Tintern is musical—a bit of an artist, but untrained, of course—quite a decent sort in a mild way; but he sozzles to console himself for the might-have-beens. The other two, Elstone and Banford-Smith, I don’t know much about.”

“But how will you intermediate fellows come off, Reedham?”

“We?—oh, we shall be all right, I dare say. We’ve had our share of the worst of it. You see, there are four of us: Ollenor and Norgate you’ve met, and then there’s Tommy Hambling, who is keeping the first dog-watch at the moment. If we went quietly we shouldn’t come to much harm, but Norgate and Hambling are always making asses of themselves. They came off to the ship absolutely blind to the world the other night. We thought we had got them down safely, but the silly fools showed the effects next morning. Hambling went bright green in the middle of School, and had to retreat and be sick, which angered the priest; and Norgate—much about the same colour—went off to sleep in the middle of Baring’s Seamanship Lecture. The whole story came out, of course. It seems that Baring saw they were tight the evening before, but didn’t know how bad it was. At any rate, he decided to say nothing about it if they were fit for duty the next morning; but then, when they collapsed during his own lecture there was hell to pay. He told Winton-Black to give them a dozen cuts each, and has stopped all their leave, wine bills and extra bills till further orders. Now they talk about breaking out of the ship when they get to Portland. Norgate says he has an amateur there, though Heaven knows where he finds her. And so it goes on.... Of course, that gets everybody’s back up against us four, and will give Krame an excellent opportunity to make himself objectionable if he is so minded.”

“But who is the officer in charge of midshipmen?” Lynwood asked.

“The Snotty Walloper? Baring.”

“Won’t he see that Krame and the others don’t go too far?”

Reedham grinned at them while he lighted his pipe.

“You people are fresh from Dartmouth, you know! A Snotty Walloper doesn’t look after snotties as a Term Lieutenant at the colleges looks after cadets. Baring’s job is to see we keep our watches, run our boats, work out our yearly sights, and do our instruction. He signs the Leave Book, and occasionally he invites one of us to dine with him in the Wardroom. That’s all. You don’t go to him with your troubles. When you come to sea you have to look out for yourself and square your own yard-arm. No one interferes except in matters affecting discipline. Your private life is your own so long as you don’t make a public exhibition of yourself when you go ashore.... Oh no, don’t imagine that Baring would trouble his head about what Krame does to you. It’s none of his business. And what’s more, nobody wants the Wardroom to interfere in what the Gunroom does. You don’t want it yourself. Etiquette about that sort of thing is very strong.”

For some time the conversation drifted away to Dartmouth days, but Lynwood’s thoughts ran on. The prospect of independence, of complete emancipation from leading-strings, attracted him. He compared his life with that of boys of his own age at public schools, and found, almost to his surprise, that he would be unwilling to accept their comfort and security in exchange for the privileges of responsibility. All midshipmen regard schoolboys with a certain contempt. They are launched into the world while their brothers are but preparing for it. They command, not a football fifteen, but a boat’s crew. They have experience of men and women whose very existence is not yet, and perhaps never will be a reality to the shore-going folk of their own class. And daily, in the ordinary course of routine, they carry—though it does not strike them in this way—their own lives and the lives of others in their hands. All this begets a rare pride, the pride of one who for the first time signs his own cheque and rejoices silently in the possession of his own banking account.

Lynwood awoke from a day-dream to find himself staring at one of the pictures above Reedham’s head.

“Those pictures,” he said suddenly, “aren’t they appalling?”

“They are pretty vile,” Reedham agreed. “But they are a Gunroom custom. I don’t see what other pictures you could have. Really good ones would look horribly out of place. Besides, the kind we have is what most people like.”

“Well, if ever I’m Sub of a Gunroom,” said Lynwood, “I’ll have good pictures or none at all.”

“Probably you will think differently then,” Reedham answered, with a smile of experience. “One’s ideas change at sea. One gets accustomed, you know.”

Later in the evening the five senior midshipmen arrived and burst into the Gunroom, followed by the two remaining juniors, Driss and Dyce. The place was soon full of the noise of greetings, the ringing of bells, and the ordering of drinks. When dinner was over, Krame made out a preliminary list of the duties of each midshipman, in which it was laid down who were to run the boats, who were to keep watch together, and to what station each was to go for the ship’s evolutions. Then began a series of questions. Krame, a dark, large-eyed youth, whose good looks dissipation had been powerless to destroy, seated himself on the table.

“Now then, Warts, how many of you are teetotallers? Prove!”

They proved by bending their arms at the elbow and holding out their hands in drill-book fashion. Krame counted.

“One, two, three, four.... Driss, aren’t you a T.T.?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to be.”

“I’m not going to ask you to sign the pledge, you know. You can drink yourselves dead when you go ashore for all I care. All I want to know is, how many of you are not going to use your wine bills on board. Then we can use them—see? What about you, Cunwell? Aren’t you T.T.?”

“I don’t want to sell my whole wine bill,” said Cunwell. “I may have to stand a boat’s crew a drink or something.”

“Thoughtful and righteous youth!” laughed Howdray.

It was decided that the ten shillings’ worth of drink, which each junior midshipman was allowed to consume in a month, was to be transferred, in four cases out of six, to the seniors. Driss was allowed to keep his because he insisted upon doing so with an Irish vigour that amused them, and Cunwell surrendered only two-thirds of his share.

This preliminary having been settled to Krame’s satisfaction, many drinks were called for with which to celebrate it. The musical Tintern was urged to the piano, and an impromptu sing-song, which was one vast chorus, was begun. It started in decorous fashion with the original version of Riding down from Bangor, followed with much greater enthusiasm by its parody. The standard then fell, and the enthusiasm rose until, when the time came to close the Gunroom, a dozen and more young gentlemen were gathered round Tintern, shouting, between pulls at drinks and puffs at pipes, songs that their sisters—but their sisters have nothing to do with the Gunroom. And Tintern, with a glass at his right hand from which he complained he had not time to drink, played and smiled and sozzled, as Reedham had remarked, to console himself for the might-have-beens.