"Now, Shortie, fill up! Snatcher, you’d better have a bucket.... ’There’s a Burmah girl a-settin’ an’ I know she thinks,’—port, Number One?" The First Lieutenant signed an imperceptible negation and pushed the decanter round, murmuring something about hereditary gout. It was ten years since he had drunk that toast: since a certain tragic dawn, stealing into the bedroom of a Southsea lodging, found him on his knees at a bedside.... They all knew the story, as men in Naval Messes afloat generally do know each other’s tragedies and joys. And yet his right-hand neighbour invariably murmured the same formula as he passed the wine on Saturday nights at sea. In its way it was considered a rather subtle intimation that no one wanted to pry into his sorrow—even to the extent of presuming that he would never drink that health again. In the same way they all knew that it was the one occasion on which the little Engineer Lieutenant permitted himself the extravagance of wine. He was saving up to get married; and perhaps for the reason that he had never mentioned the fact, every one not only knew it, but loved and chaffed him for it. The decanters travelled round, and the First Lieutenant leaned across to the Engineer Lieutenant, who was contemplatively watching the smoke of his cigarette. There was a whimsical smile in the grave, level eyes. "I suppose we shall have to think about rigging a garland[#] before long, eh?" [#] A garland of evergreens is triced up to the triatic stay between the masts on the occasion of an officer’s marriage. The other laughed half-shyly. "Yes, before long, I hope, Number One." Down came the ivory hammer— "Gentlemen—Sweethearts and Wives!" "And may they never meet!" added the Engineer Commander. In reality the most domesticated and blameless of husbands, it was the ambition of his life to be esteemed a sad dog, and that, men should shake their heads over him crying "Fie!" The First Lieutenant gathered together his silver rings. "Now then, clear the table. She’s rolling like a good ’un. Seven to one on the field, bar——" "Speech!" broke in the Paymaster. "Speech, Shortie! Few words by a young officer about to embark on the troubled sea of matrimony. Hints on the Home——" The prospective bridegroom shook his head, laughing, and coloured in a way rather pleasant to see. He rose, pushing in his chair. In the inside pocket of his mess-jacket was an unopened letter, saved up-to read over a pipe in peace, "My advice to you all is——" "’Don’t,’" from the Engineer Commander. "Mind your own business," and the Engineer Lieutenant fled from the Mess amid derisive shouts of "Coward!" The voice of the First Lieutenant rose above the hubbub— "Seven to one on the field—and what about a jump or two? Chuck up the menu-card, Pay. Now, boys, roll, bowl, or pitch ... ’Every time a blood-orange or a good see-gar’...!" * * * * *