"James," he said, and laid a hand on the other's shoulder, "before you get busy on the wassail-bowl, my lad, I should like to remind you that the boat's crew will commence training for the Regatta at 7 A.M. to-morrow. No fatheads wanted. Enough said." The Gunnery Lieutenant looked up from a game of draughts with Double-O Gerrard, the Assistant Paymaster. "Who've you got dining with you, Jimmy?" he asked. The introduction of "new blood" into a Mess, even for the evening, is generally a matter of interest to the inmates. "An old uncle of mine," was the reply. "He signalled from the Flagship that he was coming to dinner. I don't know what he's doing up here." Mouldy Jakes, who was sitting on an arm of the sofa watching the game of draughts, looked across at Thorogood. "Sir William?" he asked. "Is that man of mystery up here? What's he up to?" "Don't know," replied Thorogood. "Dirty work, I suppose." The Young Doctor assumed an expression of rapture. "What!" he cried, "my old college chum Sir William!" Then with a swift change of mimicry he bent into a senile pose with nodding head and shaking fingers, mumbling at his lips: "Ah! Ah!" he wheezed, "how time flies! I mind the day when he and I were lads together--hee-hee--brave lads ... Eton and Christ Church together----" He broke off into a decrepit chuckle. "Dry up, Pills, you ass," cried the Torpedo Lieutenant, laughing. "You aren't a bit funny--in fact, I'm not sure you aren't rather bad form." "Bad form?" echoed the First Lieutenant. "Let us see now. What's the penalty for bad form, Pay? I've forgotten." "To be devoured by lions," said the Paymaster calmly, with an eye on the sofa where Garm, the bull-terrier, sprawled as usual. "That's right," said the First Lieutenant, "so it is: devoured of lions." The next moment the Doctor was tripped up into the depths of the sofa, the bull-terrier, thus rudely awakened from slumber, dumped on top of him, and his struggles stifled by the bodies of the Paymaster and First Lieutenant. "Eat him, Garm--Hi! good beastie! Chew his nose, lick his collar...!" The great bull-terrier, accustomed to being the instrument of such summary execution, entered into the game with zest, and sprawling across the Surgeon's chest with one massive paw on his face, nuzzled and slavered in an abandonment of affectionate gusto. "Oh!--oh!--oh!--pah!--phew!" The victim writhed and spluttered protests. "Dry up--Garm, you great donkey! Piff!--you're--smothering--me--beast! Ugh! my collar--clean--no offence--Jimmy, I 'pologise--lemme get up ... Faugh!" In the midst of the uproar the door opened and the Midshipman of the Watch appeared. "Mr. Thorogood, sir," he called. "Someone to see you." The group on the sofa broke up. The Surgeon sat up panting and wiping his face. The dog jumped to the deck and accompanied Thorogood across to the door, wagging a friendly tail.