"Sloe-gin," promptly responded a tall, pale Midshipman with a slightly freckled nose and sandy hair. "Sloe-gin and bangers.[1] And get strawberry jam: see the Messman doesn't try and palm off any of his beastly gooseberry stuff like he did last time. What about bacon and eggs, and some tins of cocoa and milk, and a cake and some sardines----" "Wonk," interrupted the caterer, "we're only going to have tea ashore. We aren't going to camp out for the week-end." "I tell you what," said Mouldy Jake's patron, "I'll bring my line and we'll catch pollack and fry _them_ for tea too." "Well, I'm going to shift," said Malison, and the Committee of Supply broke up and passed down below. Half an hour later the cutter, manned and provisioned, with the skiff in tow, hoisted her foresail and sheered off from the after gangway. The India-rubber Man, as Senior Officer of the expedition, took the helm and banished the Young Doctor into the bows, where, to judge by the ecstatic shouts of merriment that floated aft, his peculiar form of wit was much appreciated. Thorogood, at the main sheet, with an old deerstalker on his head and a pipe in his mouth, led the chorus in the sternsheets. Mouldy Jakes had usurped the skiff, and having satisfied himself that he was required to take no further part in the navigation of the expedition, made himself comfortable in the bottom of the boat and blinked at the sky through puffs of smoke from his pipe. He was followed into this voluntary exile by the Midshipman of his Division, one Morton, who sat in the bows contemplating him affectionately. Precisely what it was that inspired this apparently one-sided attachment was never very apparent. The almost passionate loyalty and affections of youth are hardy plants, thriving abundantly on the scantiest soil. For a while only the drowsy swish of the water past the bottom of the boat, and snatches of merriment or song drifting aft from the cutter, broke the silence in the skiff. Then Mouldy Jakes's companion apparently tired of this silent communion. "Sir," he said, "would you like to fish?" "No," said Mouldy Jakes. His host proceeded to unwind his line. "Do you mind if I do?" he enquired. "No," was the reply. The Midshipman watched his line in silence for a little while. "Do you think you sank that submarine last night?" he asked presently. Mouldy Jakes closed his eyes and gave a grunt with an affirmative intonation. "It must have been a topping show. Weren't you awfully bucked, sir?" Another grunt. "I suppose you didn't get a wink of sleep all night?" A vague confirmatory noise. "You must be jolly tired, sir. Wouldn't you like to sleep a bit now, sir?" "Yes." "Right ho, sir. You can carry on and have a jolly good caulk. I'm going to fish, and I'll call you when we get to the island where we're going to land.... Is your head quite comfortable?" Silence reigned in the skiff.