"Subject to interference by atmospherics, barratry, mines, fog, lyddite shell bursting on board, and the King's enemies, it is proposed to hold the above in the dog watch whenever possible: "First Prize--A good cigar. "Second Prize--A blood orange. "Third Prize--A bag of nuts. "Penalty for throwing a quoit overboard: "First Offence--Fined half a crown. "Second Offence--Thrown overboard himself. "And what'll he do the third time?" inquired the Surgeon, who was suspected of being Irish. "But anyway, it's a grand idea--let's go and play before the light gets too bad." The Paymaster stepped into his cabin and returned with half a dozen discs of indiarubber. "I wheedled these out of the 'Chief.' Padre, come on and play quoits--you and I'll take on 'Pills' and the Gunnery Lieutenant." "Never played in my life. I should probably chuck them down the funnel or hit the Skipper in the eye on the fore-bridge." "That doesn't matter--it's your money we want. Come along, 'Guns,' we'll take these two on." The Paymaster led the way out of the Mess, followed by the other three. A Lieutenant dozing in the one remaining armchair opened his eyes and watched their retreating backs. "Noisy devils," he murmured drowsily. "Why don't they sleep when they can?" and lapsed into slumber again. A Marine servant entered to remove the tea-things and tidy up the Mess. As a matter of fact, there was not much to tidy: a table and the bare number of chairs required to accommodate the members was all the woodwork in the place. Two ash-trays that no one used stood on the stove, together with a novel, several pipes, and an open tin of tobacco. On the sideboard lay a little pile of newspapers a week old and a "Bradshaw"--pathetic reminder of the days when one looked up trains with a view to leave and suchlike vanities. A couple of war-maps ornamented the bulkhead: otherwise, the Mess--the home and place for sleep, meals, and recreation of a dozen English gentlemen--was bare and unadorned. The voices of the quoit-players outside came in through the open door, mingling with the soft thud of the rubber quoits as they played. The figure in the arm-chair stirred slightly and smiled in his sleep. * * * * * Forward in the bows of the ship Able-Seaman Eggers leaned over the rail, staring into the mist. The ship's bows seemed to be carving their way through liquid jade that fell away on either side of the bows with a deep sobbing sound. He wondered when the bell would strike ... he wanted his supper... A blinding sheet of flame leaped into the air, hurling a mountain of water after it with a report that rent the fog in tatters. What was left of the cruiser lifted half clear of the water and lurched forward, sickened and stricken ... her stern rose slowly in the air, the propellers kicking wildly.