Ivor started at the question and looked round the cabin. Till then he had not noticed his surroundings much. A Captain and several Commanders in frock-coats and epaulettes were seated round a baize-covered table; they were enclosed by a rope covered with green cloth, secured breast-high to wooden pillars, also covered with green cloth. It was the Captain’s fore-cabin, and the bulkheads were covered with paintings of ships. One of these in particular—a corvette close-hauled—arrested Ivor’s attention. The Deputy Judge-Advocate, a Paymaster with a preternaturally grave face and slightly nervous manner, repeated his question. "Do you object to being tried by any of the Officers present on the Court?" Ivor moistened his lips; why on earth should they expect him to object to them? An unknown Master-at-Arms standing beside him with a drawn sword nudged him in the ribs. "No, sir." The Captains and Commanders then rose with a clank of swords, and swore to administer justice without partiality, favour, or affection, in tones that for a moment brought Ivor visions of a stuffy chapel (Ebenezer, they called it) in far away Glamorganshire. Then the Judge-Advocate turned to him again. "You need not plead either ’Guilty’ or ’Not Guilty.’ But if you wish to plead ’Guilty’ you may do so now." At last: "Guilty," said Ivor Jenkins. For an instant there was utter silence. The junior Commander stirred slightly and glanced at the clock: he would have time for that round of golf after all. The Prisoner’s Friend then gave evidence, and Ivor experienced his first sensation of interest at hearing himself described as an excellent working hand, who had never given anything but satisfaction to his superiors. A perspiring and obviously embarrassed Chief Stoker followed. "The last man in the ship I’d ’a’ thought ’ud do such a thing," he maintained. Ivor glanced at him indulgently, as one who hears an oft-repeated platitude, and resumed his study of the corvette close-hauled. "Clear the Court," said the President briskly. Ivor found himself once more in the lobby, sitting between his escort. One, a kindly man, pressed a small, hard object into his hand. Ivor nodded imperceptible thanks, and under cover of a cough, conveyed it to his mouth. It was a plug of Navy tobacco. A bell rang overhead, and the prisoner was marched back into Court. "... to be imprisoned with hard labour for the term of twelve calendar months." It was over. * * * * * "Now say ’Ah!’ ... Again! ... Raise your arms ... H’m." The Surgeon disentangled himself from his stethoscope and looked Ivor in the eyes. "My lad," he said bluntly, "it’s Hospital for you—and too late at that." In the Wardroom later on he met the Engineer Lieutenant. "I’d make a better Prisoner’s Friend than ever you will," he remarked. Pressed for an explanation, he tapped the stethoscope-case in his pocket. "Consumption—galloping," he said.