The major had proposed the army, and they had drunk deep to their noble selves. A young man of weak expression and quavering legs had proposed "The commerce of Aureataland," coupled with the name of Mr. John Martin, in laudatory but incoherent terms, and I was on my legs replying. Oh, that speech of mine! For discursiveness, for repetition, for sheer inanity, I suppose it has never been equaled. I droned steadily away, interrupted only by cries for fresh supplies of wine; as I went on the audience paid less and less attention. It was past twelve. The well of my eloquence was running drier and drier, and yet no sound outside! I wondered how long they would stand it and how long I could stand it. At 12.15 I began my peroration. Hardly had I done so, when one of the young men started in a gentle voice an utterly indescribable ditty. One by one they took it up, till the rising tide of voices drowned my fervent periods. Perforce I stopped. They were all on their feet now. Did they mean to break up? In despair at the idea I lifted up my voice, loud and distinct (the only distinct voice left in the room), in the most shameful verse of that shameful composition, and seizing my neighbor's hand began to move slowly round the table. The move was successful. Each man followed suit, and the whole party, kicking back their chairs, revolved with lurching steps round the _débris_ of empty bottles and cigar ashes. The room was thick with smoke, and redolent of fumes of wine. Mechanically I led the chorus, straining every nerve to hear a sound from outside. I was growing dizzy with the movement, and, overwrought with the strain on my nerves. I knew a few minutes more would be the limit of endurance, when at last I heard a loud shout and tumult of voices. "What's that?" exclaimed the major, in thick tones, pausing as he spoke. I dropped his hand, and, seizing my revolver, said: "Some drunken row in barracks, major. Let 'em alone." "I must go," he said. "Character--Aureataland--army--at stake." "Set a thief to catch a thief, eh, major?" said I. "What do you mean, sir?" he stuttered. "Let me go." "If you move, I shoot, major," said I, bringing out my weapon. I never saw greater astonishment on human countenance. He swore loudly, and then cried: "Hi, stop him--he's mad--he's going to shoot!" A shout of laughter rose from the crew around us, for they felt exquisite appreciation of my supposed joke. "Right you are, Martin!" cried one. "Keep him quiet. We won't go home till morning." The major turned to the window. It was a moonlight night, and as I looked with him I saw the courtyard full of soldiers. Who was in command? The answer to that meant much to me. This sight somewhat sobered the major. "A mutiny!" he cried. "The soldiers have risen!" "Go to bed," said the junior ensign. "Look out of window!" he cried.