"Mr. Foulkes," he said to the Gunner, "I want you to take a firing party of eight men and a bugler, to attend the funeral of an R.N.R. trimmer who's being buried ashore this afternoon at 2 P.M. Better run them through the manual before they land. And if any of the port watch want to attend as mourners they can have leave. Some of the stokers may like to go." The Torpedo Coxswain who had overheard the conversation went forward to herald the tidings along the Mess deck. "Blime!" said a bearded seaman ecstatically, when he heard the intelligence, "first we sinks a perishin' submarine, an' then strike me giddy if the bloke don't lush us up to a funeral ashore! I reckon that's actin' proper 'andsome." At 1 P.M. the funeral party fell in on the upper deck; the brown-gaitered firing party, with rifles and bandoliers, and an attendant bugler, were given final injunctions by the Gunner. "Don't forget now, when we arrives at the mortuary, dead-'ouse or what-not, the firing party will rest on their arms reversed, the muzzle of the rifle placed on the toe of the right boot, 'ands resting on the butt, chins sunk upon the breast, at the same time assumin' an aspec' cheerful but subdued." The Lieutenant-Commander arrived on deck and interrupted the oration. "What's that brigade fallen in forward there, Mr. Foulkes?" he inquired. "We aren't giving general leave." "Them's the mourners, sir," said the Gunner, sternly surveying the crape-swathed ranks, who, after the fashion of sailors when about to go ashore, were preening themselves and squaring off each other's blue-jean collars. "Mourners, 'shun!" The mourners sprang to attention and gazed solemnly into vacancy. "How many of the port watch are landing, in the name of mercy?" asked the Commanding Officer. "The 'ole lot, sir," said the Gunner, "bein' wishful to pay respec' to the dead." The third volley rang out across the quiet churchyard that was the last resting-place of R.N.R. (T.) 1347. The bolts of the rifles rattled and snapped as the firing party unloaded; the last empty cartridge case fell to the ground with a little tinkling sound, and the bugler raised his bugle to send the thin sweet notes of "The Last Post" out into the stillness of the afternoon, speeding the fighting soul upon its final journey. Its last unfinished note died away, and there was a moment's utter silence. A hoarse word of command, followed by the grounding of rifle-butts, succeeded the stillness, and the firing party swung off down the hill with the air of men who had handled a dramatic situation without discredit. The mourners, at the invitation of the Chief Officer of the Coastguard--who held that a thing worth doing at all was worth doing properly--repaired to the Coastguard Station to partake of a cup of tea. Here as many as could crowd into the little house were introduced, in a congenial atmosphere of tears, hot tea and peppermint, to the mother and sister of R.N.R. (T.) 1347.