“Come on deck, Lynwood,” he said. “We had better have a glance round our guns for minor defects.” They strolled on deck together and visited every casemate in their group. In that time they were friends, officers charged with a common responsibility. The great game was about to begin, the game for which the whole Service had been training for many weary years. All routine, all hardness, all drudgery had become suddenly worth while. Spirit had entered into the flesh. At no time while he served in the _King Arthur_ was John happier. He and Fane-Herbert, knowing nothing of war, congratulated themselves upon the fact that it had come to them so early in their careers. “And isn’t it amazing what a difference it makes?” said Fane-Herbert. “The Gunroom is changed. All the senior snotties act as though we were their friends.” “I expect they would be better in the ordinary course,” John answered, “if they got more leave clear away from the ship, and weren’t so infernally bored by unbroken routine.” But the excitement and its excellent effect endured not long. When they arrived at Gibraltar nothing happened. The next day, while they coaled ship, hope waned. “Come on, lads,” cried a petty officer to encourage the grimy workers, “that’s about where Agadir lies.” He pointed a finger towards Africa. But they laughed at him and glanced at the coaling flags that told them how their work progressed. “Six ’undred more to come,” they said; “six ’undred more ton....” And when they sailed from Gibraltar, their destination was Catalan Bay, their prospect gun-practice. The ship’s company added another memory to their list of war scares, and suffered from the inevitable reaction. II The essential element in gun-practice and range keeping exercises is waiting with nothing to do--waiting till the target is ready, waiting till the ship’s turn comes, waiting while a passing merchant ship fouls the range, waiting while the important people in the controls make abstruse calculations with which the men at the guns have no concern. The monotony is varied by gun-drill, but even gun-drill palls. The hours pass slowly. The eyes stare at the expressionless breech of the gun until, tiring of that, they stare at the red wheel above the ammunition hoist. Often they stare at the bugler as he passes the open door of the casemate, and prayers go up that ultimately he may sound the “Secure.” The captain of the gun, sick of the limited topics which can be discussed within the hearing of the officer whose head is in the sighting-hood, produces rags and a tin, and proceeds to polish bright work already immaculate. Then he puts away his rags and tin, and watches the bugler again.