The speaker was Sub-lieutenant Havelock de Vere Cavendish, a high-spirited youth, who answered readily enough to such affectionate names as "Weeds", "Tawny", "Straight-cut", "Woodbine", or any other term that bore any resemblance to the various brands of tobacco. Cavendish was nearly twelve months senior to Peter Corbold. In height he was a full two inches shorter, and lacked the breadth of shoulder and massive limbs of his chum. Peter's features were dark, and might be described as ruffled; Cavendish's were fair and rounded. Peter was essentially a thinker; the other was a man of action, with an impulsive temperament. In short, they had little or nothing in common, as far as build, appearance, and characteristics went, but they were close chums. "Nothing to apologize for, old son," rejoined Peter. "There's no such luck for me--even to the extent of becoming the master of a barge. There's nothin' doin' afloat for a has-been naval bloke nowadays. There are far too many Mercantile Marine fellows on the beach looking for jobs as it is." "That's a fact," admitted his chum soberly. Cavendish was one of the lucky ones, although, with his characteristic honesty, he could form no idea why his name should have been "ear-marked" for retention in the Service. He had not shone in his exams. More than once he had got into scrapes, harmless enough, during his career at Dartmouth. Perhaps it was the fearless, almost foolhardy feat he had performed in mid-Atlantic, when he took the _Baffin's_ second cutter alongside a burning tanker--a German--and rescued seven survivors from a raging inferno, that had been a deciding factor in his retention. Probably he alone of all the officers knew the precarious state of Peter Corbold's finances and the gloomy outlook that confronted him. So much he gathered by "putting two and two together". Peter was not a fellow to moan and whine, but was inclined to reticence on the matter. "What are you going to do, old thing?" he demanded abruptly. "Haven't any plans," replied Peter. "At least, nothing definite to work upon. Probably I'll go abroad." "Canada or Australia?" Corbold shook his head. "No; I've been thinking of going to Rioguay," he replied. "I've an uncle out there. Mining engineer--nitrates, I believe, but I'm not sure." "Rioguay? Where's that?" inquired Cavendish. "Somewhere in South America, isn't it?" "Quite a flourishing little republic," declared Peter. "It has been going steadily ahead ever since that little scrap with Brazil. People are mostly of Spanish and Indian descent, of course, but there's a fair sprinkling of pure Europeans, I've been told." The shrill notes of a bugle interrupted Corbold's words. Instantly, every officer and man upon the _Baffin's_ deck stiffened to attention, the white-helmeted marine detachment drawn up aft presenting arms with the regularity and precision of a well-oiled machine.