“Return in a ship’s boat, will he?” thought Mr. Baring. “We’ll see about that.... Some commercial, I suppose.” The small person climbed the ladder slowly. As he stepped on to the quarter-deck he raised his hat in obedience to a Service custom well known to him. Mr. Baring, incredulous of such knowledge in a “commercial,” accepted the salute as if it had been addressed to himself. “Well,” he said, “what can we do for you?” “My name is Alter,” said the small person, “and----” “Indeed!” Mr. Baring interrupted, determined to enliven an uneventful watch at the expense of this innocent. “And what is your line?” A few moments passed before Mr. Alter understood this question. Then, as he realized that he was a “commercial,” his eyes twinkled. “Books,” he replied. “Oh, what kind?” “Various kinds--novels, biography, poetry.” “I’m afraid there won’t be much sale for them on the Lower Deck. Have you a card?” “Yes.... But it wasn’t the Lower Deck that I was seeking.” “The Wardroom? The Gunroom?” “The Gunroom, as a matter of fact. I wanted to see----” “But the Gunroom officers, as well as the Lower Deck, use the Ship’s Library. We _have_ a Ship’s Library, you know.” “Yes, I know. I’m very glad of it.” Mr. Baring extended his telescope in the direction of Mr. Alter’s bag. “Where is your stock? Not in that little bag?” “No; as a matter of fact some of my stock is already in the Ship’s Library.” “Come, come,” Mr. Baring exclaimed, “that won’t do; that won’t wash at all. The Ship’s Library isn’t bought from casual booksellers, you know; it is a Service issue.” “Dear me,” answered Mr. Alter, putting down his bag on the deck, and selecting a visiting-card from his case, “but I don’t think I have made a mistake.” “Then I must have made a mistake,” Mr. Baring remarked with sarcasm. This was a persistent little fellow, he thought. “Well,” said Mr. Alter, “perhaps we have both made mistakes. I should have told you my full name and my business at once--in truth, I intended to do so, but you didn’t give me much chance. I haven’t come to sell. I should like to pay a call, if you will allow me. There are friends of mine in the Gunroom--Fane-Herbert and Lynwood. I am Wingfield Alter. I write books, you know. That’s the card you asked for.” It was as if some visitor, unknown by the name of Bennett, had added, “Arnold Bennett; I write books, you know.” Mr. Baring knew now only too well. So this odd creature, with a bowler hat and a hand-bag and a pointed beard, was Wingfield Alter, the friend of many admirals, an honoured guest in times past at combined manœuvres. Mr. Baring had an unpleasant vision of great men telling this tale to one another in the corridors at Whitehall. “And Baring took him for a commercial traveller. Baring must be an ass!” “I am very sorry, Mr. Alter,” he said quickly, still feeling that it was Mr. Alter’s fault--as perhaps it was. “It was your little bag that deceived me. However, it will make a good tale for you to tell.”