“Even if I do get out soon,” he said, “I have a horrible feeling that one doesn’t escape very far.” And, blind to Hartington’s questioning eyes, he went on, speaking a part of his thought. “The powers that encompass us are devilish strong: the Service, Fane-Herbert’s father, Ordith--all the ring. One doesn’t defy them easily. One gets caught again ... in the net.” Hartington dragged from his shelf a book that John had never before seen in his hands. He opened it where an envelope marked a place. “Read that--from the second verse--‘_They all lie in wait._’” “‘_They all lie in wait for blood; they hunt every man his brother with a net. That they may do evil with both hands earnestly, the prince asketh, and the judge asketh for a reward; and the great man, he uttereth his mischievous desire: so they wrap it up._’” “Go on, it’s most important to go on.” “‘_The best of them is as a brier: the most upright is sharper than a thorn hedge: the day of thy watchmen and thy visitation cometh; now shall be their perplexity._’” “That’s where you stop,” said Hartington. “And you are going to get out, Lynwood. Good luck!--and dreams of Oxford.” When John had left him, Hartington sat down by his writing-table, and, in his capacity as “Lynwood’s Sub,” wrote a long letter to a man he had never seen. “I’m probably making a fool of myself,” he thought; “but it’s a chance--and the need’s pretty desperate.” CHAPTER XVIII IN THE CROSS-PASSAGE I There was no Gunnery after the first days of September, and on the fifth the squadron sailed for Yokohama in order that it might send representatives to the Mikado’s funeral. The Gunroom was cheered by the prospect, though the enthusiasm of the midshipmen who were then attached to the Engine-room staff was somewhat damped by the thought of so many days continuously at sea. John, however, had by now returned to the Upper Deck, and to him watch-keeping on the fore-bridge had ever been the most attractive of his duties. By night it was even pleasanter than by day; for then the bridge’s isolation was accentuated; there was no routine, no hurrying to and fro of the hands; no Commander, no Captain, no Navigator, save in exceptional circumstances. The Gold Lace, together with all that the Gold Lace implied, was securely packed away. The officer of the watch and his midshipman drew closer together, the barriers of Service were dissolved, and personality lived again. Sipping the cocoa that John had made, he and his officer would stoop over charts of strange regions and weave tales of the places whose names they found; or, together on monkey’s island, they would exchange reminiscences of Dartmouth and the _Britannia_; or discuss books, women, politics, or spiritualism, according to the officer’s taste.