The Commander and the First Lieutenant of the _What Ho's_ discussed the training of setters. The Young Doctor and his opposite number, and those near them found interest in morphia syringes, ventilation of distributing stations, and--a section of the talk whirling into a curious backwater--the smell of cooking prevalent in the entrance halls of Sheerness lodging-houses. . . . The dinner went its course: they drank, sitting (as was their privilege and tradition), the King's health. Then the cigarettes went round, chairs turned a little sideways, the port circulated a second time. The conversation was no longer general. In pairs or by threes, according to taste, temperament or individual calling, the members of the mess and their guests settled down to a complacent enjoyment of the most pleasant half-hour in a battleship's long day. Presently, while the bridge-table was being set out, the Indiarubber Man rose from the table, and, crossing to the piano, began to vamp lightly on the keys, humming under his breath. A chorus quickly gathered round. A battered Naval Song Book was propped up on the music-rest--more from habit than necessity, since the Indiarubber Man could not read a note of music and everybody knew the words of the time-honoured chanties. The pianist's repertoire was limited: half a dozen ding-dong chords did duty as accompaniment to "Bantry Bay," "John Peel," and "The Chinese Bumboatman" alike; but a dozen lusty voices supplied melody enough, the singers packed like herrings round the piano, leaning over each other's shoulders, and singing with all the strength of their lungs. They exhausted the favourites at length, and the player wheeled round on his stool. "What about one of the guests for a song?" "Yes, yes!" cried several voices. "Where's Number One? He's our Madame Patti. You ought to hear him sing '_We don't serve bread with one fish-ball!_' It's really worth it. But it takes a lot of port to get him started. How d'you feel about it, Number One?" They spoke with indulgent affection, as a nurse might persuade a bashful child to show off before company. He of the choleric blue eye was still sitting at the table with one of his hosts. He turned in his chair, smiling grimly. "What's that about me? I don't want to start scrapping in a strange mess, Snatcher, but if you really _are_ looking for trouble----!" "Don't mind us!" shouted the Indiarubber Man delightedly. "We'll put up a scrap for you in half a jiffy if you feel like a crumpled shirt-front!" He looked round the mess. "Wait till Flags and the Secretary come in from dinner with the Old Man, and we'll out the gilded Staff. They're good 'uns to scrap." As he spoke the door opened, and the Flag Lieutenant came in, to be met by a volley of greetings.