When John said to Driss that he had made up his mind, he thought that the decision at which he had arrived was unalterable. If it were possible, he would leave the Service. The resentment he felt against Aggett coloured his dreams of an impossible future, in which he was to be free to learn and to write, free to build, free to love, free to fight at no permanent disadvantage for the possession of whom and what he loved—free as no one of his generation could ever be. But even before relief came by the Captain’s orders he had begun to reconsider his decision, determined that a step so momentous and irretrievable should not be taken in hot blood. By the rules of the Service he, a midshipman, was unable to resign. Midshipmen must be withdrawn by their parents, and this implied that John could act only through his mother. If the responsibility had been his own he would have accepted it at once; for his own needs, and, he thought, the price he would have to pay for their satisfaction, were indeed clear to him. A price, however, would be demanded not of him only. His mother was glad that he was in the Navy, settled in a profession that would provide him with shelter and clothing, food and drink; and now so far advanced in it that in less than two years she would cease to pay the annual fifty pounds demanded by the Admiralty of the parents of midshipmen, and John, receiving the daily five shillings that was the pay of sub-lieutenants, would be able to keep himself. His mother had been so generous to him, had given him so much of the little she possessed, that John could not bear to demand more of her. The education received by him at Osborne and Dartmouth had cost the State more than his mother had paid. If he left the Service before the Service had had time to reap in his labour an interest on its outlay, the Admiralty would justly require of his mother that she should make good at least some part of its loss. She would be forced at last to draw upon that small capital which, for all her need, she had never touched. John knew that the Admiralty, a stern, and yet on occasion a strangely generous department, was sometimes disposed to waive its rights; but he could not imagine his proud mother in the part of the suppliant widow. She would make no appeal for sympathy or exceptional treatment. “They have a right to this money,” she would say, “and they shall have it in full.” And she would add: “I’m glad to pay it, John, if it makes for your happiness.” John could hear her saying that. It gave him pause.

This preliminary cost of freedom it would, however, be possible, though inconvenient, to pay. Beyond it lay a problem not easily soluble—perhaps impossible to solve. By leaving the Service he would cut himself off from the only profession for which his specialized training had fitted him. He would have to be educated again, apprenticed again. At a time when he might have been earning enough money for his own support more money would have to be invested in his career. It was probable that, for all his mother’s good-will, the money could not be produced. The meshes of the net were close and strong.

So John fought to reverse his decision and succeeded at least in postponing the letter by which his mother should be made aware of it. Delay was easy, almost pleasant; for he dreaded above all else the answer, which despite his hopes he felt was inevitable, that her financial position made his second apprenticeship, and therefore his withdrawal, impracticable. Such an answer would shatter in a moment the dreams by which he now lived. Until it came hope would endure; by its arrival hope would be definitely banished. He dared not think of his life after that. He must leave the Service soon or not at all, for every year would make a fresh start more difficult. If he was forced to realize that he could not be withdrawn as a midshipman it would be made plain to him—so plain that he would not be able to deceive himself—that he must be a naval officer so long as he lived. His visions of Oxford, of the House, of miraculous literary success, extravagant though he knew them to be, were yet based upon possibility. This possibility once removed, as it would be by his mother’s negative, the visions themselves must perish and their consolation pass away.

Not till August was nearly over did the time come when action could no longer be delayed. An incident entirely unconnected with John’s desire to leave the Service impelled him to write the letter in which his desire was expressed. The squadron had been carrying out Commander-in-Chief’s firing. It had fallen to an elevation party from the Pathshire to board the tug which towed the target, and to spot the fall of the flagship’s shot. John and Cunwell had gone with Ordith. It was their duty to sit aft in the tug so that they were in line with the target, and to record by means of a stop-watch and the Rake instrument the time and effect of each salvo. Ordith was to observe, calling to John, who would write them down, the errors over or short in yards. Cunwell was to keep his eyes on the flagship, and, as the guns flashed, say “Fire,” John pressing the knob of the stop-watch and entering the time on his sheet.

Rain fell so fast during the forenoon that it had the effect of fog and made firing impossible. The elevation party went to the Pathshire for lunch, and, the rain having by then ceased, returned in the afternoon to the tug. The target was towed by a wire hawser, which was intended to ride from side to side over the great hoop-shaped girders with which the tug was fitted. It had been found, however, that if the wire were given free play, instead of passing evenly over the riding-hoops as the tug altered course and the target shifted from one quarter to the other, it held up momentarily in the centre, swung across at high speed, and was thus subjected continually to sudden stresses that threatened to break it. To prevent this, the wire was secured by port and starboard steadying-lines, and, no longer free to travel over the riding-hoops, was kept rigidly amidships. This arrangement was itself dangerous, and the tug’s crew were warned that in no circumstances were they to go aft of the point of attachment of the steadying lines.

When the elevation party reached the tug there was still some time before the firing was due to begin and they spent it with the lieutenant in command—whom Ordith knew as Toby—sitting in deck-chairs and smoking cigarettes. The sun had broken through a stormy sky, so that there was golden lace on the rim of each dark hollow in the sea, and the rigging was fringed with glistening drops that, as the vessel rolled, fell in showers on to the deck.

Presently the “Preparative” was hoisted by the flagship.

“Time to begin,” said Ordith, and stretched himself. “Everything ready, Lynwood—paper, pencil, stop-watch? We’d better be moving aft.”

“There’s plenty of time,” said Toby, “time to finish your cigarettes.”

Ordith drew slowly at his, and watched the smoke swept aft on the wind. Like a cat he lay contented in the sun.

“I’m not keen on you fellows sitting aft of those steadying lines,” Toby said. “If one of them parts, the wire will move like—like the blade of a guillotine.”

“I confess the position is not one I should have chosen,” Ordith answered. “But where else can we work the Rake? I don’t want my valuable head removed.”

“I think it might be possible—God! there goes the tow!”

Toby sprang up as a tremor passed through the tug. No sound had been audible. John, who had caught a glimpse of Toby’s suddenly white face, moved to follow him. Cunwell, too, was on his feet.

“Unnecessary panic,” said Ordith. “It’s only one of his damned steadying lines.”

The Engine-room telegraph had clanged, and, the engines being stopped, the tug rolled heavily. Through the silence came a voice that contained a suggestion of doubt: “Man overboard!” Then a moment later, loud and clear:

“Man overboard!”

Toby, whom they could not see, shouted: “Away lifeboat’s crew—no, not all of you—blast your eyes!... Make a signal to Flag for boats and doctor. Keep a look-out from the bridge.... Find out who’s missing, Hogge.”

Ordith, moved at last, went aft, followed by John and Cunwell. Toby, standing near a blood-soaked body that lay on the deck, was questioning a seaman whose nerves had gone.

“You shouted ‘Man overboard!’ didn’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“Did you see him go over?”

“Not see ’im, sir, as you might say. Thought I saw a splash, sir.”

“Splash—in this sea?”

“Well, sir—seemed a splash like.”

Toby resisted a desire to stamp his foot and shake his fist.

“Did you hear anything?”

“Wouldn’t ’ear no splash in this sea, sir.”

“No,” said Toby, “quite right; you wouldn’t.” Then, taking breath, he continued more calmly. “There’s nothing more to be done—the boat’s away; this man’s dead; take your time: I want to find out if there’s a man overboard or not. What made you think there was? What made you shout ‘Man overboard’?”

“Well, sir, there was two standin’ there talkin’. I seed ’em on’y a few minutes gone. An’ when the accid’nt ’appened, sir, ’an I looked again, there was on’y one”—he glanced at the body, and finished lamely—“on’y one, as you might say, sir.”

“Then one’s gone, unless he moved away. Did you see who they were?”

“There was Skidd, sir—that’s Skidd, lyin’ there.”

“I know. The other?”

“Didn’t see no face, sir. Didn’t notice.”

Toby ran a handkerchief over his forehead. Hogge had come up.

“Well? Mustered the hands?”

“Owlett’s gone, sir.”

“Owlett? Sure he’s not away in the boat?”

“No, sir; ’e’s not in the boat, sir.”

“Right.... Was every man warned not to go aft of the steadying lines?”

“Yes, sir. Accordin’ to your orders, sir.”

“You could swear to that, if need be?”

“Swear’t on the Bible, sir. Warned this Owlett meself, sir. Never was one to take ’eed.”

“Very good.” Toby saw Ordith, and greeted him as if almost surprised by his presence. “Hullo Ordith.... Poor fellow! gone down like a stone. They’ll never find him.... Fool to stand there—damned fool! Oh well!”

“Head off?” said Ordith, pointing to the now covered body.

“Nearly.... Good seaman, that. Wife and three children.”

Ordith turned for’ard as Toby left him on his way to the bridge. “Five minutes later, might have been me.... This valuable head,” he added, a little shaken. “And Aggett rummaging my cabin.” He patted his pockets. “By Jove! left the keys, too.” Then, suddenly perceiving Cunwell, he gripped his arm. “Don’t care for Aggett,” he said confidentially; “do you?”

He returned to his deck-chair.

“Wonder if we can help Toby at all?... No.”

He moved his shoulders as if adjusting the set of a coat, opened his cigarette-case and shut it again with a snap.

“Oh well!” He sighed, leaned back, interlaced his fingers behind his valuable head, and, because the sun was strong, tilted his cap over his eyes.

II

That evening two Wardroom Officers came into the Gunroom to play poker. At the end of the table which the game left free, John sat down to write his letter. He had been too near to death that afternoon to waste more time.

He wrote the date and

“Jack Pots!” cried a poker player. The chips rattled into a saucer. “What about some drinks?... Drink for you, Lynwood?”

“No, thanks very much.”

He put his letter into an envelope, stamped and addressed it, and scribbled “Via Siberia” across its corner. Then, having dropped it into a hollow-voiced letter-box, he left the Gunroom. The decision being now inevitable, he dared discuss it with Hartington.

“Can I come in, Hartington? or—or are you reading?”

“I was. But come in and talk. Move those things from your chair on to the bunk.”

After a short silence, John said: “I’ve written to my mother, asking her to take me out.”

Hartington moved suddenly, his eyes shining. “Oh, splendid!” he cried. “I am glad. I wondered if you’d ever have the guts to do that. Which is it to be—Balliol or Univ.?”

Never had John felt more gratitude than he did for this enthusiasm.

“You think I’m right?” he asked, for the pleasure of hearing Hartington answer: “Yes, of course you are right. Go and order some drinks, and then come back and tell me what you are going to do—all your plans. And we’ll drink to Oxford and the Great Work. We’ll drink to all our dreams—yours, coming true—and mine, very like yours once.”

The drinks were ordered, and John returned.

“Probably my mother won’t take me out,” he said.

“Yes, she will. She’s bound to if you’ve made her understand—she wouldn’t be your mother otherwise.”

“It’s a question of money.”

“Oh!...”

“Oxford’s impossible, anyhow.”

“Then, damn Oxford!... Lynwood, you must get out. I didn’t. Something interfered—never mind what. And now I know.... You must escape somehow.”

Then slowly John explained much that, even to Hartington, he had never spoken of before—how little money there was, and how little influence. He talked of his mother and of Mr. Alter.

“I believe Alter would help but I don’t like to ask him.”

“Why not—if you’re going into journalism?”

“I know; but, you see,” John said, with hesitation, “I think Alter was in love with my mother at one time. I’m not sure he doesn’t love her still. One can’t ask favours.”

They talked until near midnight, when John rose to go.

“Even if I do get out soon,” he said, “I have a horrible feeling that one doesn’t escape very far.” And, blind to Hartington’s questioning eyes, he went on, speaking a part of his thought. “The powers that encompass us are devilish strong: the Service, Fane-Herbert’s father, Ordith—all the ring. One doesn’t defy them easily. One gets caught again ... in the net.”

Hartington dragged from his shelf a book that John had never before seen in his hands. He opened it where an envelope marked a place.

“Read that—from the second verse—‘They all lie in wait.’”

“‘They all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net. That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man, he uttereth his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up.’”

“Go on, it’s most important to go on.”

“‘The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper than a thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation cometh; now shall be their perplexity.’”

“That’s where you stop,” said Hartington. “And you are going to get out, Lynwood. Good luck!—and dreams of Oxford.”

When John had left him, Hartington sat down by his writing-table, and, in his capacity as “Lynwood’s Sub,” wrote a long letter to a man he had never seen.

“I’m probably making a fool of myself,” he thought; “but it’s a chance—and the need’s pretty desperate.”