Somehow they opened their sea-chests, got out of their clothes, scrambled aft, and swung themselves into their hammocks. Once in his, John lay as he was, not caring even to creep between the blankets. He lay staring at the white-painted T-bar within a few inches of his face, listening to the rifles, which were stored near by, clicking to and fro in their racks with each roll of the ship. The half-deck sentry passed him now and then. Somewhere a pump groaned continually. From the open door of the Wardroom came the sound of voices and laughter and snatches of song. John did not sleep. He lay inert, capable of no consecutive thought. He went on repeating catchwords to himself, counting the groans of the pump, counting the sentry’s footsteps, sucking his damaged finger, running his hand over the rough surface of the canvas hammock. Despite his efforts to banish so tormenting a vision, again and again he saw himself crouched in the window-seat of a sun-strewn library, now looking out to the hills, now turning the pages of a book. He saw the excellence of open print; almost he heard a clock ticking.... In less than two hours, Ollenor, who had been keeping the first watch, shook his hammock. “Lynwood!” “Yes, I’m awake.” “About ten minutes to eight bells. Your middle watch.” “All right; thanks.” He swung out on to the deck, went to his chest, and put on watch-keeping clothes. On the bridge Ollenor turned over to him such information as he would need for his watch. When Ollenor had gone, John glanced at the dim figure of the officer of the watch on the upper bridge. Then, passing the Quartermaster at the wheel, he stood by the semaphore and looked aft, beyond the funnels and the boat deck, at the lights of the next astern. Presently he turned his face for’ard and took off his cap, and let the wind blow among his hair. Soon he must take a sextant on to the upper bridge and help the officer of the watch keep station; but now he stood inactive, one hand on the cool steel of a searchlight. The incomparable peace of the wide sky; the throb of the main engines; the rising and dipping lights of the fleet--there was sweet, timeless monotony in these things. Far below him the cut foam was hissing against the bows. Behind him the pipe of the boatswain’s mate was shrilling and shrilling again. And Krame was asleep, and the hand of God over the sea. CHAPTER IV WAR, CARPETS, AND CANDLES I