Speeches were made. Tintern said, “I’ve always thought it odd that the Service should have a special name for a ship that isn’t mouldy and at cross-purposes. It sounds as if such ships were rare. And so they are nowadays, west of Suez. But the China Birds say that there are still Happy Ships on the China Station. A Happy Ship is a ship in which all the Messes get on with one another--a ship in which, among other things, there isn’t bad blood between Wardroom and Gunroom. And I hope the young gentlemen will get one. I ask you to drink to the health of the _Pathshire_, and may she be a Happy Ship!” When the toast had been honoured and the wine passed once more, the Mess shouted at Krame for a speech. He rose slowly, and looked round him. “As Tintern has been talking about a Happy Ship in the future,” he said, “I suppose the young gentlemen think it’s up to me to say something about their somewhat lurid past. There’s not much to be said--no excuses, or apologies, or that kind of thing. But there is this: a Happy Ship is a happy ship right through, and contrariwise. Nothing that has happened here has happened because of personal ill-will. It has happened because--because--Lynwood, what was that line I picked out of some stuff you were reading? I remember now. It has happened because we are ‘in the fell clutch of circumstance.’ I hope that in the better land to which they are going the young gentlemen will have more leave--not a few hours at a time, pub-loafing at Pompey or Gib., but real leave, clear away from the ship, and long enough to give them a chance not to be bloody-minded. Long leave is what the Service wants, gentlemen, says I, beatin’ the tub! Long leave is what we wishes the young gen’lemen, says us, liftin’ our glasses.” Krame sits down amid a roar of applause. Presently Tintern goes to the piano and plays all the familiar songs. To-morrow this sing-song party will break up, never to reassemble again. Every tune is made richer by wine and sentiment--the _Alphabet_, _Napoleon_, _Farewell and Adieu_, _Screw-Guns_. “_If a man doesn’t work, why, we drills ’im and teaches ’im ’ow to behave; If a beggar can’t march, why, we kills ’im an’ rattles ’im into ’is grave. You’ve got to stand up to our business an’ spring without snatchin’ or fuss. D’you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us. ’Tss! ’Tss! For you all love the screw-guns...._” Thus Mr. Kipling to the tune of the _Eton Boating Song_. And now a round of drinks, and song again--a song whose immortal words are unpublished, whose tunes are various, whose name is the _Barrack-Gate_. “_... Then the wily Gym. Instructor ... Just outside the Barrack-Gate._”