Presently every one repaired to the Wardroom, where corks were popping from soda-water bottles, and an amateur humourist of renown sat down to the piano as the laughing crowd gathered round. A couple of bridge-tables were made up, and the players settled down with that complacent indifference to outside distraction peculiar to men who live habitually in crowded surroundings. Seated astride the chairs at one end of the mess, two teams of would-be polo-players were soon locked in conflict, table-spoons and an orange being accessories to the game. The singer of comic songs had finished his repertoire, and the Mess turned in search of fresh distraction. "Come on, old Mouldy, what about putting up your little turn?" called out one, addressing a grave-faced officer who sat smoking on the settee. "Yes," chorussed half a dozen voices, "go on, do!" The officer addressed as "Mouldy" sat down at the piano, fingered the keys contemplatively for a moment, and then in a deep baritone voice began— "God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle line," and so on to the end of the first verse. The polo-players ceased their horseplay, and leaned panting over the backs of their wooden steeds to listen. The second verse drew to a close— "An humble and a contrite heart," and then the group round the singer joined in the refrain— "Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!" At the fourth verse the Mess clustered round the piano. The bridge-players had laid their hands down, and at the skylight overhead appeared faces and the glint of uniforms. The Gunroom started the last verse, and the rest joined—men’s voices, bass and tenor, lifting the stately words in a great volume of harmony up through the skylight into the night— "All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word Thy mercy on thy people, Lord! Amen!" The last solemn chord died away, and a sudden silence fell upon the Mess: it was some moments before the conversation once more became general. By twos and threes the guests departed. Groups clustered at the gangways; the night was full of farewells and the hooting of picket-boats’ syrens. Gradually the Mess emptied, and in the flat where the midshipmen slept silence reigned among the chests and hammocks. The Admiral’s guests had also departed, but on the silent quarter-deck two tall figures walked up and down, pipes in mouth. "I wonder why they sang that thing," said one musingly. His companion paused and stared across the water at the lights of the town. From there his gaze travelled round to the silent Fleet, line after line of twinkling anchor-lights and huge hulls looming through the darkness. "Somehow, it seemed extraordinarily appropriate, with things as they are ashore just now."