Lynwood, who was well aware that Cunwell had been bitterly disappointed because he had never been made a Cadet Captain himself, knew what triumph lay beneath the friendly appearance of his warning. Cunwell delighted to impress upon him the indisputable fact that he had fallen from relatively high estate. “Well, I expect you are glad now, Cunwell,” he said, “that you were never made a Cadet Captain? You won’t get beaten once a week--not for that reason, at any rate.” “All right,” Cunwell exclaimed angrily, “you needn’t be sarcastic about nothing. I thought you would like to know; and then you lose your temper because I warn you. You are an extraordinary fellow! My brother----” “Oh!” Fane-Herbert interrupted. “For four years and a half we’ve heard about your brother. You told me all about him the first night we were at Osborne.” “You’re another of the Cadet Captains. Are the marks of your stripes showing?... At any rate, my brother is one of the best officers in the Service. The men love him.” “I dare say.” Sentley, as did all save Cunwell, resented this wrangling. To him it was as if prisoners insulted one another on their way to the scaffold. Moreover, youthfully conscious of his dignity as a naval officer, he felt that such disputes were not for the ears of Mr. Binney. “It doesn’t really matter now,” he said mildly. And then, determined to be cheerful at all costs, he added: “Do you think we shall get leave at Christmas?” and Fane-Herbert echoed him: “It doesn’t really matter now.” But the question set Lynwood looking across the months. “It’s a long way off,” he said. “Not longer than a Dartmouth term.” “No.” “But you won’t get four weeks’ leave, as you did at Dartmouth,” Cunwell said. “Of course, snotties sometimes get both watches of leave, but I shouldn’t count on it.” “Don’t you want leave?” Lynwood asked. “Of course I do; but I’m not so damned homesick already as you are.” There seemed to be no reply to this, so silence fell for a moment. Mr. Binney interposed quickly: “The _King Arthur’s_ pretty good about leave, I think.” “Is she?” Cunwell turned on the others. “One might think you fellows weren’t keen on the Service. Don’t you want to go to sea?” “Why not wait till you get there?” Fane-Herbert said coldly. “Yes, you just wait!” Cunwell warned them. “I can tell you, Fane-Herbert, your smiles and your cricket won’t help you there; nor your English and _x_-chasing, Lynwood. That isn’t the kind of thing Commanders look for.” Even Cunwell’s voice became less strident when at last they had left Mr. Binney with their luggage, and, under his directions, had gone into the street. Their best uniform, in which they were bound to report themselves on board, added to the discomfort caused by wind and rain. Soon their trousers were wet to the knee. “I say,” said the careful Sentley, “do you think the Commander will mind our trousers being like this?”