When the time came, it was very dark, for deck-lamps were not allowed, and every port-hole was obscured, so that no chink of light should betray our whereabouts to a prowling submarine. We began by star-gazing. Then we brought eyes and faces downwards, and watched the wide, rippling sea. Monty, having refilled his pipe on his knees, lit it with some difficulty in the gentle wind, before he remembered that, after dark, smoking was forbidden on deck. The match flared up, and illuminated the world alarmingly.... We listened for the torpedo. Nothing evil coming from the darkness, Monty knocked out the forbidden tobacco, and placed an empty pipe between his teeth. "I suppose you fellows know," he said, "that we've got a daily Mass on board." "What's that?" asked Doe. Monty removed his pipe and gazed with affected horror at his questioner. Certainly he would hold forth now. "Bah!" he began, but he changed it with quick generosity to "Ah well, ah well, ah well! I know the sort of religion you've enjoyed--and, for that matter, adorned. It's a wonderful creed! Have a bath every morning, and go to church with your people. It saves you from bad form, but can't save you from vice." Doe moved slightly in his chair, as one does when a dentist touches a nerve. Monty stopped, and then added: "'A daily Mass' is my short way of saying 'A daily celebration of the Holy Communion.'" "Heavens!" thought I. "He's an R.C." I felt as though I had lost a friend. Doe, however, was quicker in appraising the terrible facts. "I s'pose you're a High Churchman," he said; and I've little doubt that he thereupon made up his mind to be a High Churchman too. Monty groaned. He placed in front of Doe his left wrist on which was clasped a bracelet identity disc. He switched on to the disc a shaft of light from an electric torch, and we saw engraved on it his name and the letters "C.E." "That's what I am, Gazelle," said he, as the light went out, "C. of E., now and always." ("Gazelle" was ostensibly a silly play on my friend's name, but, doubtless, Doe's sleek figure and brown eyes, which had made the name of "The Grey Doe" so appropriate, inspired Monty to style him "Gazelle.") "C. of E.," muttered I, audibly. "What a relief!" "You beastly, little, supercilious snob!" exclaimed Monty, who was easily the rudest man I have ever met. I didn't mind him calling me "little," for he so overtopped me intellectually that in his presence I never realised that I had grown tall. I felt about fourteen. "You beastly, little, intolerant, mediaeval humbug. I suppose you think 'C. of E.' is the only respectable thing to be. And yet your C. of E.-ism hasn't--" He stopped abruptly, as if he had just arrested himself in a tactless remark. "Go on," I said. "And yet your religion," he continued gently, "hasn't proved much of a vital force in your life, has it? Didn't it go to pieces at the first assault of the world?" "I s'pose it did," I confessed humbly.