Dinner in the long, antler-hung mess-room of the Naval Barracks had come to an end. Here and there along the table, where the shaded lights glinted on silver loving-cups and trophies, a few officers lingered in pairs over their coffee. Presently the band moved down from the gallery that overlooked one end of the Mess, and began playing in the hall. This was the signal for a general move to the smoking-room, where a score of figures in mess undress uniform were grouped round the fire, lighting pipes and cigars and exchanging mild, after-dinner chaff. A few couples of dancing enthusiasts were solemnly revolving in the hall. Others made their way up the broad staircase to the billiard-room, or settled down at the bridge tables. "Come on," shouted a tall Commander seated on the "club" fender in the smoking-room, "what about a game of skill or chance? Come up to the billiard-room, and bring your pennies!" He stirred a form recumbent in an arm-chair with the toe of his boot. "What about you, young feller? Are you going to play pool?" The young Lieutenant shook his head. "Not to-night, sir, thanks. I’m going to bed early: I’ve got the Night Guard trip." Gradually the room emptied. The figure in the arm-chair finished the paper he was reading, glanced at the clock and rose, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Call me at 1.15," he said to the hall porter as he passed him on his way to his room. An officer, immaculate in evening dress, who was putting his overcoat in the hall, overheard the speaker, and laughed. "That’s the spirit! Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise!" "More’n you’ll ever be, my sprig o’ fashion," grumbled the Lieutenant, and passed on. * * * * * The Lieutenant of the Night Guard went cautiously down the wooden steps of the Barracks’ Pier that led to the landing-place. Cautiously, because the tide was low, and experience had taught him that the steps would be slippery with weed. Also the night was very dark, and the lights of the steamboat alongside showed but indistinctly through the surrounding fog. At the bottom of the steps one of the boat’s crew was waiting with a lantern. Its rays lit for a minute the faces of the two men, and gleamed on the steel guard of the cutlass at the bearer’s hip. "Infernal night!" said the Lieutenant from the depths of his overcoat collar. He had just turned out, and there was an exceeding bitterness in his voice. The lantern-bearer also had views on the night—possibly stronger views—but refrained from any reply. Perhaps he realised that none was expected. The other swung himself down into the sternsheets of the boat, and, as he did so, the Coxswain came aft, blowing on his hands. "Carry on, sir?" "Please. Usual rounds: go alongside a Destroyer and any ship that doesn’t hail. Fog’s very thick: got a compass?"