The belated arrival of the postman as the table was being cleared did much to brighten matters. A rustling silence, interspersed by an occasional chuckle (hurriedly repressed), presently gave way to general conversation. Pipes were lit, and the fire coaxed into a more urbane frame of mind. The Junior Watch-keeper was seen to transfer stealthily from a letter to his pocket something that crackled crisply. The Young Doctor and the Assistant Paymaster (hereinafter known as the A.P.) sat complacently on his chest while they explored his pockets. "Let me—it’s years since I touched a fiver.... _And_ a dun from Ikey—well, I’m blessed! _And_ a Christmas card from Aunt Selina to dear Gussie—oh, Gussie, look at the pretty angels! He hides it in his pocket——" "He stands fizz all round at seven bells," announced the First Lieutenant in a calm, judicial voice. The Junior Watch-keeper didn’t stand it, but fizz all round there was. The First Lieutenant read prayers on the snow-powdered quarterdeck, and then, following the immemorial custom of the Service, the Wardroom made a tour of the garland-hung mess-deck, halting at each mess to exchange the compliments of the season and to sample the plum-duff. Properly observed, this ritual would put the normal stomach out of action for the remainder of the day. But there are discreet methods of sampling. The Day-on flopped exhaustedly on to a Wardroom settee, and proceeded to empty his cap of lumps of "figgy-duff," cigarettes, and walnuts. "Bless their hearts," he murmured, "I love them and I love their figgy-duff, but there are limits—here, Jess!" He whistled gently, and a fox-terrier asleep by the fire rose and delicately accepted the tribute. "Number One," continued the speaker, "you looked quite coy when they cheered you, going rounds just now." Then raising his voice he sang— "For he’s a jolly good fe-ello-o-O!" The First Lieutenant’s grave face relaxed. "Less of it, young fellow," he replied, smiling. He had lost a wife and child as a young lieutenant, and something of his life’s tragedy still lingered in the level grey eyes. Then followed the popping of corks and the tinkle of glass. Even the fever-stricken one brightened. "Now then," he shouted truculently to the Young Doctor, "I don’t mind if you do wish me a happy Christmas, you benighted body-snatcher." But the Surgeon was opening the piano, and as he fingered the opening bars of "Good King Wenceslas," some one turned and smote the fire into a blaze. * * * * * The short day was fading into dusk, and the Mess sat eyeing one another sorrowfully over the tea-table. You can’t drink champagne, sing "Good King Wenceslas," and beat the fire all day. "What price being at home now?" said the Engineer-Lieutenant, gloomily buttering a piece of bread and smearing it with treacle.