Tintern emptied a glass of port, squared himself to the piano, and beat out the first chords of No. 165. Not only the Warts sang it; the senior midshipmen, tired of the many repetitions of the christening ceremony, were glad of a chance to make a noise. “_O Gawd, our ’elp in ages pa-ha-hast._” This prolongation was in response to Tintern’s improvised chords and runs. “_Our ’ope for years to come._” The voices swelled to a roar, and paused for breath. In the momentary silence the ship rolled deeply; the sea came surging over a scuttle and receded, leaving wisps of luminous foam. “_Our shelter from the stormy bla-ha-hast, And our eternal_----” Tintern was beating the keyboard with his doubled fists as a kind of desperate finale. The wild discords screamed under the steel bars overhead. A locker flew open, and by a lurch of the ship all it contained was shot across the Gunroom. A Manual of Seamanship, a “Child’s Guide,” a writing-case, a Gunnery Drill-Book, and a box of instruments, lay scattered on the table amid a pile of crumpled letters. An Oxford Bible was open and face downwards on the deck. Near it a bottle of ink, streaming its contents, rolled to and fro. Finally, there fell from the locker a photograph of Driss’s mother. He started forward to gather up his possessions. “Fall in, damn you!” Krame shouted. “Who told you to fall out?” Driss went on. Krame stood up. “Come here, Driss. Did you hear me tell you to fall in?” “Yes.” “Well?” “I am going to pick up my things before they are spoilt.” “Why don’t you keep your locker properly shut? Look at the ink on the deck. I’ve a damned good mind--by God, you shall lick it up!” Driss’s face was pale, his Irish eyes dangerous. Tintern leaned sideways in his seat and took Krame by the arm. “Dry up, you fool!” he said in an undertone, and turned back to the piano. He had tact, moreover. “_O Gawd, our ’elp in ages pa-ha-hast...._” Before the chorus was ended Driss had secured his locker and quietly fallen in again. The next Evolution was known alternatively by two names--one, “The Angostura Hunt”; the other, which was sometimes attached in other Gunrooms to an Evolution slightly different, “Creeping for Jesus.” John was the first taken. Thrust on his knees near the serving slab, he was blindfolded with two handkerchiefs. He could hear the senior midshipmen’s voices. “Lay it here.... No, not under the table. We can’t get at him under the table.... There, that will do. Replace the bitters, Elstone.” “Can you see?” asked Krame. “No.” “Can you smell?” “Yes.” “Can you feel?” “Yes.”