"No—only hysterical. The man with her is trying to make her stop." The sailor laughed. "He’s given it up ... now he’s waving too—what at?" He closed his glass. "Curious, isn’t it?" The steamer passed on, and a confused burr of cheering announced that she had reached the next silent warship. "It’s all-same ’Maffick,’" he continued presently, "Entente—Banzai—anything you like to call it. An’ when we’ve gone they’ll come to their senses and feel hot all over—like a fellow who wakes up and finds his hat on the gas-bracket and his boots in the water-jug!" The Midshipman nodded: "I saw some kids dancing round a policeman once. Made the bobby look rather an ass—though as a matter of fact I believe he rather liked it. Bad for discipline, though," he added with the austere judgment of eighteen summers. A launch bumped alongside, and a stout man in the stern-sheets shouted for permission to come on board. "Do," said the Lieutenant gravely. The stout man took a valedictory pull at a black bottle in the stern-locker, pocketed a handful of shrimps for future consumption, and, accompanied by three feminine acquaintances, laboriously ascended the ladder. They gazed stolidly and all uncomprehending at the sleek barbette guns, the snowy planking underfoot, over which flickered the shadow of the White Ensign, and finally wandered forward through the screen-doors, where they were lost to view among the throngs of sightseers. The afternoon wore on; every few minutes a launch or steamer swirled past, gay with bunting and parasols. Many carried bands, and in the lulls of cheering the light breeze bore the notes of martial, if not strictly appropriate, music across the line. An Able Seaman paused in his occupation of burnishing the top of the after-capstan, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead. "Proper dizzy, ain’t they?" he remarked in an undertone to a companion. "Wot’s the toon?" "Sons of the Muvverland," replied the other. He sucked his teeth appreciatively, after the manner of sailor-men, and added, "Gawd! Look at them women!..." A launch with a crimson banner, bearing the name of a widely-circulated halfpenny paper, fussed under the stern. A man in a dingy white waistcoat hailed the quarter-deck in the vernacular through a megaphone. "No, thank you," came the clear-cut reply; "we have to-day’s papers." The Lieutenant hitched his glass under his arm and resumed his measured walk. "I’m no snob, Lord knows," he confided to the other, "but it bores me stiff to be patted on the head by the halfpenny press— Sideboy! pick up those shrimps’ heads that gentleman dropped."