Lettigne, otherwise known as "Bosh," amused himself by juggling with a banana, two oranges and a walnut, relics of his dessert. His performance was being lazily watched by the Sub from the depths of the arm-chair which he had drawn as near to the glowing stove as the heat would allow. It presently attracted the notice of two other Midshipmen who had finished a game of picquet and were casting about them for a fresh distraction. This conversion of edible objects into juggling paraphernalia presently moved one to protest. "Why don't you eat that banana, Bosh, instead of chucking it about?" he enquired. "'Cause I can't," said the exponent of legerdemain. "Why not?" queried the other. "Too full already," was the graceful response. "I'm just waiting--waiting till the clouds roll by, so to speak." The two interlocutors eyed each other speculatively. "Did you have any dessert?" asked one. "No," was the sorrowful reply. "My extra-bill's up." Thereupon they rose together and fell straightway upon the juggler. An equal division of the spoil was made while they sat upon his prostrate form, and eaten to the accompaniment of searching prods into their victim's anatomy. "Bosh, you ought to be jolly grateful to us, really. You'd probably have appendicitis if we let you eat all this--phew! Mally, just feel here.... Isn't he a hog! ..." "Just like a blooming drum," replied the other, prodding judicially. Over their heads the tireless voice of the gramophone trumpeted forth its song. The Sub who had kept the Middle Watch the night before, slept the sleep of the tired just. The door opened and a Junior Midshipman entered hot-foot. "Letters," he shouted. "Any letters to be censored? The mail's closing tomorrow morning." "Yes," replied the two correspondents at the table, simultaneously bringing their letters to a close. "Hurry up, then," said the messenger. "The Padre's waiting to censor them. He sent me along to see if there were any more." Mordaunt folded his letter and placed it in an envelope. "Got a stamp, Harcourt? I've run out." He extended a penny. Harcourt looked up, pen in mouth, thumping his wet sheet with the blotting paper. "In my locker--I'll get you one in a second." "Oh, do buck up," wailed the messenger. "I want to turn in, an' the Padre's waiting." "All right," retorted Harcourt. He rose to his feet. "I forgot: little boys lose their roses if they don't get to bed early. Billy, shove that letter in an envelope for me, to save time, while I get the stamp." His friend complied with the request and picked up his pen to address his own epistle. As he did so the prostrate juggler, with a sudden, spasmodic recrudescence of energy, flung his two assailants off him and struggled to a sitting position. They were on him again like wolves, but as they bore him prostrate to the deck he clutched wildly at a corner of the table-cloth.