By this time the uproar was so great that Jeffreys, Ogston, and the other Assistant Engineer could literally not hear themselves speak, and the table, heaving once or twice as the midshipmen fought and struggled beneath it, gave ominous signs of capsizing. "Stop it, you young idiots!" roared Jeffreys, smiting the table with his open hand and calling the senior midshipman by name. In a minute they were back in their places, flushed and happy, with collars gone, coats torn, and here and there small gashes on their faces, which their nearest chums wiped affectionately with the crumpled table-cloth. Order once restored, they fell to with redoubled vigour, and sardines disappeared like magic—sardines, tinned butter and biscuits. "Well, I can’t get over that news from home," said Dumpling for about the fourth time since the mail had come aboard. "Whatever is it, Dumpling?" they all chorused. "Your old cat had kittens?" "No, you chaps, didn’t I tell you? My sister is engaged to the son of a duke. I simply can’t get over it." "Can’t you, really! Then try if that will help you," sang out Mellins, and he heaved a sea-boot at Dumpling’s head. Dumpling was much too nimble, and it only crashed into the helpless Mess steward, who was doing his best to serve them all, smashed to smithereens a jug which he was carrying, and caught him fair and square on the chest. "Awfully sorry, Watson," said Mellins apologetically. "Put Mr. Dunning down for six jugs, Messman," said Jeffreys—"six for sky-larking." "But I didn’t throw it; it wasn’t my fault," stammered Dumpling. "Your fault, be hanged! you deserved it." "But my sister _is_ engaged to the son of a——" he began again. "Come here, Dunning!" Jeffreys yelled. "Now, stand at my side here; give me your arm. No, I’ll be quite gentle with you," as he twisted it slightly and Dumpling winced. "Now, tell us all very nicely about your sister. Whom is she going to marry?" "The son of a du——" began Dumpling. "No, no, she isn’t, my friend. Just repeat after me: My sister—is—going—to marry—a—broken-down—drunken—cab-driver. Now do as I tell you," as Dumpling became defiant, "or before you know where you are you shall have a dozen of the best across your back." And he twisted his arm till he writhed with pain. "My sister is—going—to—marry a cabman," he stuttered, red in the face. "A—broken-down—drunken cab-driver," Jeffreys roared; but Dumpling was spared the indignity of repeating that, for a messenger put his head in at the door and sang out that the midshipmen of the picket-boat and second cutter were wanted in the Commander’s cabin immediately, and as Dumpling had the second cutter, he wriggled himself free and escaped. Mellins was the proud "owner" of the picket-boat, and, with their recent animosities forgotten, both boys bolted like rabbits to the Commander’s cabin.