"We ain’t scrubbed decks yet," the petty officer said, following my eye, his hand bobbing up and down to his forehead all the time. "Wouldn’t you like to see the orficer’s cabin, sir?" he added hastily, to distract my anger, and led me up a ladder, through an opening in the fore awning, to a platform round the mast and funnel. On this platform deck, for’ard of the mast, were the steering-wheel, compass, and engine-room telegraphs, also a tiny little signal-locker; aft of the funnel was a diminutive deck-house, about half the size of a railway compartment. It had a low bunk on each side, with scarcely room to stand between them, a few shelves, lockers under the bunks, and a cracked looking-glass. Overhead the paintwork was blackened by an oil lamp which swung from the roof and looked as if it had not been cleaned or trimmed for years. Outside the cabin there was just enough deck space for a small folding table and a couple of canvas folding chairs. "Them chairs belonged to Mr. Collingwood, what died of sunstroke, and the gunner, what went off ’un ’is ’ead," the petty officer explained. I made a grimace. "You’ll ’ave a cup of corfee?" he asked, rubbing his hands together and smiling ingratiatingly as a dirty unkempt Indian boy (a Tamil I found out afterwards) brought two cups of horrid-looking coffee and a tin of condensed milk with milk congealed down one side of it. "Mr. Wilson ’as ordered your breakfast, and this ’ere boy—Percy we calls ’im—looks arter you two orficers." Nothing seemed to stop his talking machine. I snorted—it was the only way I could express my feelings—and looked round to see what had become of Mr. Scarlett, who had disappeared. "What’s your routine on board?" I asked, going down the ladder again to that six-pounder in the bows. "We ain’t exactly got none," the petty officer answered. "Mr. Collingwood, ’im what died of sunstroke, ’e didn’t ’ave no regular routine—an’ Mr. Wilson didn’t alter nothing." He said this in a half-fawning, half-defiant manner, as much as to say: "Don’t you come making trouble." Mr. Scarlett joined us, his black eyes gleaming, stepping through the little crowd of lascars and scattering them. "They won’t hang any more bananas on my guns," he chuckled. I had heard a splash, so guessed what had happened, and smiled until that petty officer, hanging round to join in the conversation, explained that "They were a bunch Mr. Wilson bought yesterday, off a Karachi dhow, and ’ung ’em up there to get a bit ripe for you two orficers." He looked so cunningly pleased that I told him sharply to clear out of it and I’d send for him when I wanted him.