But the reader continued in tranquil indifference. Quite a number of years had passed since he first learned that in Gunroom communities to stop speaking on account of interruptions meant spending your days in the silence of a Trappist. "... at the point of the bayonet, the enemy retreating in disorder." Silence on the group at last. This was of more account than cricket or aeroplanes, for this was War, their trade in theory, and, perchance—and the Fates were wondrous kind—the ultimate destiny of each. The Censor of Governments gave a delighted blast from his pipe— "The bayonet!" he breathed. "That’s the game...!" In all his short life he had never seen a blow delivered in hate—the hate that strikes to kill. Yet a queer light smouldered in his eyes as half-dreamily he watched the waves scurrying to join the smother of the wake. The Clerk by the muzzle of the 6-in. gun took his pipe out of his mouth and turned towards the speaker. "I’ve got a brother on the Frontier—lucky blighter, I bet he’s in it!" He removed his glasses, as he always did in moments of excitement, and blinked short-sightedly in the morning sunlight. He came of a fighting strain, but had been doomed by bad sight to exchange the sword, that was his heritage, for pen and ledger. "Does it say anything else—let me see, Billy." "No—no details; only a few casualties; they killed a Subalt—" he stopped abruptly; the wind caught the sheet and whisked it from his fingers. His face had grown white beneath its tan. "Oh, you ass!" chorussed the group. The piece of paper whirled high in the air and settled into the water astern. A shadow fell athwart the seated group, and the Sub. looked up. "Hullo! Good-morning, Padre!" "Good-morning," replied the sturdy figure in the mortar-board. A genial priest this, who combined parochial duties with those of Naval Instructor, and spent the dog-watches in flannels on the forecastle, shepherding a section of his flock with the aid of boxing-gloves. "Discussing the affairs of your betters, and the Universe, as usual, I suppose! I came over to observe that there is a very fine horizon, and if any of ye feel an uncontrollable desire to take a sight——" "Not yet, sir!" protested a clear tenor chorus. "Morning-watch, sir," added a voice; then, mimicking the grumbling whine of a discontented Ordinary Seaman: "Ain’t ’ad no stand-easy—besides, sir, the index-error of my sextant——" Somewhere forward in the battery the notes of a bugle sang out. The members of the Gunroom smoking circle mechanically knocked out their pipes against the rim of the white-washed spitkid, and rose one by one to their feet, straightening their caps. In a minute the sponson was deserted, save for the Clerk who lingered, blinking at the sunlit sea. A moment later he turned, encountering the kindly, level eyes of the Chaplain.