They took their seats on camp stools while a bluejacket dealt out tin plates like playing cards. Sir William turned from a scrutiny of the tiny book-shelf over the port bunk. At the head of the bunk was nailed the photograph of a girlish face, and in close proximity to it one of a lusty baby exploring a fur rug apparently in search of clothes. "Not much of a library, I'm afraid," said the host, seating himself. "I'm not much of a reader myself. The Sub's the bookworm of this boat." The First Lieutenant of the Submarine shot a swift glance of suspicion at his Commanding Officer as he helped himself to a chop. The look, however, appeared to pass unnoticed. "Some months ago," continued his Captain, speaking with his mouth full, "we were caught in shallow water over the other side----" he jerked his head upwards and to the South East. "We were sitting on the bottom waiting for it to get dark before we came up and charged batteries. I was having a stretch-off on my bunk here, and the Sub, of course, had his nose in a book as usual. From subsequent developments it appears that a Hun seaplane saw us and proceeded to bomb us with great good will but indifferent success." "We ought never to have been there," interrupted the First Lieutenant coldly. "Bad navigation on the Captain's part." "Granted," said the Lieutenant-Commander. "The first bomb was rather wide of the mark, but it woke me, and I saw the Sub's eyelids flicker. After that I watched him. The Hun bombed us steadily for a quarter of an hour (missing every time, of course), and the Sub never raised his eyes from his book." "I was interested," said the First Lieutenant shortly; his eyes, in one swift glance captain-wards, said more. "Quite. I was only trying to prove you were a book-worm." "What was the book?" enquired Sir William. "Oh, Meredith, sir. Richard something-or-another. Topping yarn." The guest steered the conversation out of literary channels. "Were you over the other side much?" he asked blandly. "Pretty well all the war, till we came up North," was the Lieutenant-Commander's reply. "You'll have to use the same knife for the butter; hope you don't mind. We get into piggish ways here, I'm afraid.... Amusin' work at times, but nothing to the Dardanelles; we never got out there, though; spent all our time nuzzling sandbanks off the Ems and thereabouts. Of course, one sees more of Fritz in that way, but I can't say it exactly heightens one's opinion of him. We used to think at the beginning of the war that Fritz was a sportsman--for a German, you know. But he's really just a dirty dog taking very kindly to the teaching of bigger and dirtier dogs than himself." Sir William pondered this intelligence. "That's the generally accepted theory," he said.