"Sweethearts and wives!" called another voice across the flat. "You’ll get drunk to-night, Snatcher, if you try to drink to all——" the voice died away and rose again in expostulation with a Marine servant. "... Well, does it _look_ like a clean shirt...!" "Give it a shake, Pay, and put it on like a man!" Some one else had joined in from across the flat. The Engineer Lieutenant pushed his head inside his neighbour’s cabin: "Come along—come along! You’ll be late for dinner. Fresh grub to-night: no more ’Russian Kromeskis’ and ’Fanny Adams’!" "One second.... Right!" They linked arms and entered the Wardroom as the President tapped the table for grace. The Surgeon scanned the menu with interest. "Jasus! Phwat diet!" he ejaculated, quoting from an old Service story. "Listen!" and read out— "Soup: Clear." "That’s boiled swabs," interposed the Junior Watch-keeper. "Mr President, sir, I object—this Officer’s unladylike conversation." "Round of port—fine him!" interrupted several laughing voices. "Go on, Doc.; what next?" "Fish: ’Mullets.’" "Main drain loungers," from the Junior Watch-keeper. "Isn’t he a little Lord Fauntleroy—two rounds of port!" "_Entree_: Russian Kromeskis——" A roar of protest. "And——?" "Mutton cutlets." "Goat, he means. What an orgie! Go on; fain would we hear the worst, fair chirurgeon," blathered the Paymaster. "Joint?" "Joint; mutton or——" "Princely munificence," murmured the First Lieutenant. "He’s not a messman: he’s a—a—what’s the word?" "Philanthropist. What’s the awful alternative?" "There isn’t any; it’s scratched out." The A.P. and the Junior Watch-keeper clung to each other. "The originality of the creature! And the duff?" "Rice-pudding." "Ah me! alack-a-day! alas!" The Paymaster tore his hair. "I must prophesy ... _must_ prophesy,—shut up, every one! Shut up!" He closed his eyes and pawed the air feebly. "I’m a medium. I’m going to prophesy. I feel it coming.... The savoury is ... the savoury is"—there was a moment’s tense silence—"sardines on toast." He opened his eyes. "Am I right, sir? Thank you." The Surgeon leaned forward, and picking up the massive silver shooting trophy that occupied the centre of the table, handed it to a waiter. "Take that to the Paymaster, please. First prize for divination and second sight. And you, Snatcher—you’ll go down for another round of port if you keep on laughing with your mouth full."