“Translate, George,” said the squadron commander. “He says he’s on sick leave,” explained one of the hosts. “He’s just flying to keep his eye in. He scuppered five Boches last week.” “_Si_,” said the Frenchman, nodding, and held up his hand with outstretched fingers, “_Cinq!_” “Good on you, old sport,” said the squadron commander. They shook hands again, and the remainder clustered rather curiously round the sinister machine with the black skull and cross-bones adorning its fusilage. “Makes one sort of sorry for the Hun, doesn’t it?” said one musingly. “George,” said another, “ask him what that doo-hickie on the muzzle of his gun’s for.” He indicated a detail on the mounting. The Frenchman explained at some length, and the interpreter interpreted. “_Bon!_” said the squadron commander. “_Oui_,” said the Frenchman, “_tres bon!_ You ’ave not eet--_cette_--_comment dites vous?_--doo-hickie? No?” “No,” was the reply, “_mais nous_ blooming well _allons_----” The Frenchman presently climbed back into his machine and took his departure. The squadron commander summoned his chief armourer, and for a while deep called to deep. “He’s a red-hot lad, that Frenchman,” said the squadron commander, when the chief armourer had gone. “I fancy he only came down to let us see that doo-hickie of his on his gun. You ought to hear some of his yarns, though.” The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies gazed after the aerial speck against the blue of heaven, and his soul was glad within him, because it was all the purest Navy. “That’s all right,” he said. “But what I should like to know is, what the deuce is a doo-hickie?” “A doo-hickie?” replied the squadron commander. “A doo-hickie? H’m’m. George, how would you describe a doo-hickie?” The officer appealed to puffed his pipe in silence for a moment. “Well,” he said at length, “you know more or less what a gadget’s like?” “Yes.” “And a gilguy?” “Yes.” “Well, a doo-hickie is something like that, only smaller as a rule.” There was a silence. Then the squadron commander leaned forward and flicked a speck of fluff off the shoulder of the Stranger within their Gates. “There you are!” he exclaimed triumphantly--“_that’s_ a doo-hickie!” “Have a drink, anyway,” said the officer who answered to the name of George, soothingly. The Stranger within the Gates of the Navy-that-Flies had the drink, and from then onwards forbore to ask any more questions. But he still sometimes wonders what the functions of a doo-hickie might be. CHAPTER IV “LEST WE FORGET” I. H.M.S. “SHARK” H.M.S. _Shark_, under the command of Commander Loftus W. Jones, went into action about 5.45 p.m. on May 31st, 1916 with a complement of ninety-one officers and men; of that number only six saw June 1st dawn.