“’Andy,” replied the stoic. He rummaged in an obscure “glory-hole” and produced in turn his master’s boot-cleaning gear, his own ditty-box, private stock of tobacco, fiancée’s portrait, and finally his master’s gas-mask. This, emptied of a further assortment of his personal possessions, he gravely handed to the Onlooker. That worthy rapidly collected his remaining impedimenta and struggled into a “British warm”; as he did so certain obscure warnings of the distant past (those far-off days when we read handbooks and attended lectures on war in the abstract) came back to mind. “By the way,” he said--“underclothing. In the Russo-Japanese war they always put on clean underclothing before going into action, I remember. Septic wounds, and all that. When did I have a clean shift last?” His official valet closed his eyes, as if contemplating a vista of time greater than the human memory could in justice be expected to span. Finally he shook his head gloomily. “Couldn’t rightly say, but----” “Never mind,” interrupted the Onlooker hastily. “I haven’t time now, anyway,” and made for the door. His servant’s impassive countenance softened; perhaps he was reflecting that they might never again forgather in that cabin. “It’s goin’ to be cold up there----” he jerked his head towards the upper-deck and forebridge, and eyed his master compassionately. “Better ’ave your woolly muffler--what your wife knitted for you.” The Onlooker was touched. “Thank you,” he said. “If I may borrow it for the afternoon....” * * * * * The clatter of cups and saucers in the neighbouring pantry guided his footsteps to the wardroom in search of tea. That the warning had gone round was evident from the prevalent wakefulness (unusual at that hour) of all the occupants of the mess. Everyone was garbed for the fray according to his prospective rôle or individual taste. Costumes ranged between cricketing flannels and duffle overalls with Balaclava helmets and sea-boots. It might reasonably have been expected that one topic and one only--“Der Tag”--would have been on everyone’s lips. The German Fleet was out: was even then being lured north by the battle cruisers, and the Fleet was rushing to meet it in battle-array. The hour for which the Fleet had waited twenty-two weary months was about to strike: and no one even mentioned it. The affectation was somehow peculiarly British. Drake epitomised it for all time when he declared there was time to finish the game and beat the Spaniards too; but it is a question whether the self-conscious imperturbability of that game of bowls on Plymouth Hoe equalled that of the Fleet flagship’s wardroom as its members sat in noisy banter round the tea table, munching bread-and-jam with a furtive eye on the clock.... It was left to the commander-in-chief’s flag lieutenant to break the spell. He put down his cup with a clatter, picked up his telescope, and rose to his feet, fastening the toggles of his duffle coat.