Later in the evening the five senior midshipmen arrived and burst into the Gunroom, followed by the two remaining juniors, Driss and Dyce. The place was soon full of the noise of greetings, the ringing of bells, and the ordering of drinks. When dinner was over, Krame made out a preliminary list of the duties of each midshipman, in which it was laid down who were to run the boats, who were to keep watch together, and to what station each was to go for the ship’s evolutions. Then began a series of questions. Krame, a dark, large-eyed youth, whose good looks dissipation had been powerless to destroy, seated himself on the table. “Now then, Warts, how many of you are teetotallers? Prove!” They proved by bending their arms at the elbow and holding out their hands in drill-book fashion. Krame counted. “One, two, three, four.... Driss, aren’t you a T.T.?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I don’t want to be.” “I’m not going to ask you to sign the pledge, you know. You can drink yourselves dead when you go ashore for all I care. All I want to know is, how many of you are not going to use your wine bills on board. Then we can use them--see? What about you, Cunwell? Aren’t you T.T.?” “I don’t want to sell my whole wine bill,” said Cunwell. “I may have to stand a boat’s crew a drink or something.” “Thoughtful and righteous youth!” laughed Howdray. It was decided that the ten shillings’ worth of drink, which each junior midshipman was allowed to consume in a month, was to be transferred, in four cases out of six, to the seniors. Driss was allowed to keep his because he insisted upon doing so with an Irish vigour that amused them, and Cunwell surrendered only two-thirds of his share. This preliminary having been settled to Krame’s satisfaction, many drinks were called for with which to celebrate it. The musical Tintern was urged to the piano, and an impromptu sing-song, which was one vast chorus, was begun. It started in decorous fashion with the original version of _Riding down from Bangor_, followed with much greater enthusiasm by its parody. The standard then fell, and the enthusiasm rose until, when the time came to close the Gunroom, a dozen and more young gentlemen were gathered round Tintern, shouting, between pulls at drinks and puffs at pipes, songs that their sisters--but their sisters have nothing to do with the Gunroom. And Tintern, with a glass at his right hand from which he complained he had not time to drink, played and smiled and sozzled, as Reedham had remarked, to console himself for the might-have-beens. CHAPTER III A CHAPTER WITHOUT NAME I