The night is the unsullied property of the men--in a manner of speaking; but in a manner only. The same could not be said of the officers, as a body. The officers, it is true, fare sumptuously every night, and dress elaborately to dine. The ill-starred private, his simple meal long since consumed, perambulates, and looks on at this good feasting from the promenade deck. "Gawd! I'd like them blokes' job. Givin' b----y orders all day, an' feedin' like that--dressin' up, too! 'Struth! Nothin' better t' do!" Now, that is the everlasting cry of the rank-and-file against those in authority. It's in the business house, where the artificer glares after the managing director--"'Olds all the brass, an' never done a day's work in 'is loife!" It's not so common in military as in civil experience. But as the artisan overlooks the brooding of the managing director in the night watches, whilst he sleeps dreamless, filled with bread, so the private tends to forget that when the Major's dinner is over and his cigar well through, he may work like the deuce until midnight, and be up at _réveille_ with the most private of them. The officers are a picturesque group of diners, and they promenade impressively for an hour thereafter; but they have their night cares, which persist long after the rank and file is well hammocked and snoring. But before any snoring is engaged in there is a couple of hours of yarning and repartee and horse-play and mirth of all orders. The band plays; the name of the band is legion aboard, and often several members of the legion are in action simultaneously, blaring out their brazen hearts in some imperial noise about (say) Britannia and the waves and the way she rules them; and if you're one of the dozen ill, you cast up a prayer that she will see fit, in her own time, to rule them rather more straight. Hardly a night but there is a concert, from which the downright song--as such--is rigidly excluded, and nothing but burlesque will be listened to.