At the landing-stages, where the crowd surged thickest, the picket-boats from the Fleet swung hooting alongside, rocking in the swell. As each went astern and checked her way, the front of the excited throng of sightseers bellied outward, broke, and poured across the boats in a wild stampede for seats. They swayed on the edge of the gunwales, floundered hobnailed over enamelled casings, were clutched and steadied on the heaving decks by barefooted, half-contemptuous men. The Midshipmen raised their voices in indignant protest: drunk and riotous liberty-men they understood: one "swung-off" at them in unfettered language of the sea, or employed the butt-end of a tiller to back an ignored command on which their safety depended. But here was a people that had never known discipline—had scorned the necessity for it in their own unordered lives. The Midshipman of the inside pinnace jerked the lanyard of the syren savagely. "Look at my priceless paintwork! look at—_That’s_ enough—no more in this boat—it’s not safe! Please stand back, it’s—oh, d——!" A man, in utter disregard of the request, had picked up a child in his arms and jumped on board, steadying himself by the funnel guys. "Orl right, my son, don’t bust yerself," he replied pleasantly. * * * * * An old woman forced her way through the crush towards the Lieutenant of the Patrol, who with knotted brows was trying to grasp the gist of a signal handed to him by a coastguard. "I want to see my ’usband’s nephew," she explained breathlessly; "’e’s in 39 Mess." The Lieutenant smiled gravely. "What ship?" She named the ship, and stood expectant, a look of confidence on her heated features, as if awaiting some sleight-of-hand trick. There was something dimly prophetic in the simple faith with which she voiced her need. "I see. Will you excuse me a minute while I answer this signal, and I’ll send some one to help you find the right boat." A Petty Officer guided her eventually to the landing-place and saw her safely embarked; he returned to find his Lieutenant comforting with clumsy tenderness a small and lacrymose boy who had lost his parents, turning from him to receive the reproaches of a lady whose purse had been stolen. The two men exchanged a little smile, and the Petty Officer edged a little nearer— "’Arf an hour on the parade-ground at Whale Island,[#] sir, I’d like to ’ave with some of ’em," he confided behind a horny palm. The jostling throng surged round him, calling high heaven to witness the might of its possessions. [#] The hotbed of Naval Discipline. "_I’d_ make ’em ’op..." he murmured dreamily. *XVI.* *"WATCH THERE, WATCH!"*