Cavendish was in a shore-billet--the Royal Naval Barracks at Portsmouth--having just completed a gunnery course at Whale Island. He was speculating upon what manner of craft his next ship would be. He rather fancied a destroyer, but would have been in no way surprised or disappointed if he were appointed to a light cruiser. He was not particularly keen on a battleship. That meant a two-years commission either in home waters or in the Mediterranean--and already, in his comparatively brief career, he had seen enough of Malta and Gib. to express a wish never to see either place again. Life on a battleship in peace-time, he reflected, was apt to savour of boredom; on a destroyer there were discomforts, but on the whole there were compensations. It gave a fellow a chance to do something that would be impossible on a capital ship. A sub on a destroyer was a responsible person; on a battleship, he was one of a crowd. For another reason, he was not altogether certain that he had done well in the gunnery course; but he _did_ know that he had obtained a "first" in the torpedo course. Cavendish unshipped his legs from the messroom fender, threw the morning's paper on the settee, and, after exchanging a jest with some of the other occupants, made his way to the commander's office. The marine orderly had given no indication of the reason for the interview. It was more than likely that he did not know. That left Cavendish speculating as to the possible reason for the "Bloke's" wish to see him. As far as he knew, there was nothing "up against" him. Discreetly he knocked at the door of the commander's private room. Commander Broadstairs was a typical officer of the present-day navy--clean-shaven, alert both physically and mentally, and with a certain brusqueness of manner that at times might be mistaken for churlishness. On the quarter-deck, he would reduce a truculent defaulter to a state of panic by a mere look. On duty he was a living example of discipline and order, both spelt with a capital letter. He knew by heart the whole of the "Sailors' Bible"--the Admiralty Instructions. It was said that the men feared him more than they did the Commodore. But when off duty, Commander Broadstairs' mantle of routine was shed. He was just an ordinary, jovial fellow--a gentleman in the truest sense of the word. His popularity was not of his own seeking; it was acquired simply by his personality. "Come in!" he shouted breezily. "Ah, there you are, Mr. Cavendish. Take a seat." He waved his hand in the direction of an arm-chair by the side of his large knee-hole desk. The Sub sat down promptly enough. The fact that he, a very junior officer, had not been kept standing at attention, indicated the nature of the forthcoming interview. Probably it concerned the garrison sports, or the united services boxing tournament. But Cavendish was well out of his reckoning.