So the meal progressed. The "mullets" were disentangled from their paper jackets amid a rustling silence of interrogation. The Worcester sauce aided and abetted the disappearance of the Russian Kromeskis, as it had so often done before. The mutton was voted the limit, and the rice-pudding held evidences that the cook’s hair wanted cutting. The Junior Watch-keeper—proud officer of that functionary’s division—vowed he’d have it cut in a manner which calls for no description in these pages. There weren’t any sardines on toast. The Philanthropist appeared in person, with dusky, upturned palms, to deplore the omission. "Ow! signor—olla fineesh! I maka mistake! No have got sardines, signor...!" "Dear old Ah Ying!" sighed the Engineer Lieutenant, "I never really loved him till this minute. Why did we leave him at Hong-Kong and embark this snake-in-the-grass.... No sardines...!" But for all that every one seemed to have made an admirable meal, and the Chaplain’s "For what we have received, thank God!" brought it to a close. The table was cleared, the wine decanters passed round, and once again the President tapped with his ivory mallet. There was a little silence— "Mr Vice—the King!" The First Lieutenant raised his glass. "Gentlemen—the King!" "The King!" murmured the Mess, with faces grown suddenly decorous and grave. At that moment the Corporal of the Watch entered; he glanced down the table, and approaching the Junior Watch-keeper’s chair saluted and said something in an undertone. The Junior Watch-keeper nodded, finished his port, and rose, folding his napkin. His neighbour, the Engineer Lieutenant, leaned back in his chair, speaking over his shoulder— "Your First Watch, James?" The other nodded. "Then," with mock solemnity, "may I remind you that our lives are in your hands till twelve o’clock? Don’t forget that, will you?" The Junior Watch-keeper laughed. "I’ll bear it in mind." At the doorway he turned with a smile: "It won’t be the first time your valuable life has been there." "Or the last, we’ll hope." "We’ll hope not, Shortie." The buzz of talk and chaff had again begun to ebb and flow round the long table. The First Lieutenant lit a cigarette and began collecting napkin-rings, placing them eventually in a row, after the manner of horses at the starting-post. "Seven to one on the field, bar one—Chief, your ring’s disqualified. It would go through the ship’s side. Now, wait for the next roll—stand by! Clear that flower-pot——" "Disqualified be blowed! Why, I turned it myself when I was a student, out of a bit of brass I stole——" "Can’t help that; it weighs a ton—scratched at the post!" The Commander tapped the table with his little hammer— "May I remind you all that it’s Saturday Night at Sea?" and gave the decanters a little push towards his left-hand neighbour. The First Lieutenant brushed the starters into a heap at his side; the faintest shadow passed across his brow. "So it is!" echoed several voices.