Giles, who had just been sent to the Armed Guard from the fleet, was waiting for orders in a room at the naval barracks. It was early in the spring, the sun shone renewed and clear; a hurdy gurdy sounded far, far away. The big room was clean, clean with that hard, orderly tidiness which marks the habitations of men under military rule. A number of sailors, likewise waiting for their orders, stood about. There was a genuine sea-going quality in the tanned, eager young faces. The conversation dealt with their journeys, with the ships, with the men, the life aboard, the furloughs in London. "Bunch of Danes ... good eats ... chucked Bill right out of his bunk ... regular peach ... saw Jeff at the Eagle Hut..." Presently a bosun entered. A man somewhere in the thirties, brisk and athletic. One could see him counting the assembled sailors as he came, the numbers forming on his soundless lips. The talk died away. "How many men here?" said the bosun abruptly. Several of the sailors began counting. There was much turning round, a deal of whispered estimations. Every one appeared to be looking at everybody else. Finally a deep voice from a corner said: "Thirty-five." "Any one down for leave?" Some half dozen members of a gun crew just home from a long journey, called out that leave had been given them. "Anybody on sick list?" There was no answer. In the ensuing silence, the bosun checked off the answers on his list. "I suppose you all want to go out." "Sure!" "Get in line." The bosun backed away, and looked with an official eye at the sturdy group. "All here, pack up and stand by. At eleven o'clock have all your baggage at the drill office. I'll send a man up to get the mail." The line broke up, keen for the coming adventure. Giles, the signalman, walked at a brisk pace to his quarters... You would have seen a lad of about twenty-two years of age, between medium height and tall, and unusually well built. Some years of wrestling--he had won distinction in this sport at school--had given him a tremendously powerful neck and chest, but with all the strength there was no suggestion of beefiness. The friendliest of brown eyes shone in the clean-cut, handsome head, he had a delightful smile, always a sign of good breeding. In habit he was industrious and persevering, in manner of life clean and true beyond reproach. Giles is an American sailor lad, a _real gob_, and I have described him at some length because of this same reality. The sooner we get to know our sailors the better.