We plunged straightway into the seething life of the mess-deck and living spaces of the great ship, the captain leading; and as we threaded a path forward, men stepped aside, stood quietly to attention until we passed, and resumed their tasks or leisure. Workshops, kitchens, laundry, bakeries, dental surgery, sick bay, mess-rooms, round we went in a swift, slightly bewildering rush, while the “owner” jerked explanations over his shoulder. He displayed a familiarity with the details of it all that was to say the least of it interesting to one of another navy, whose captains claim to be not indifferent “ships’ husbands.” Our whirlwind tour carried us into a speckless electric bakery piled high with fragrant loaves. The captain had flung open and closed the door of an oven secured by an ingenious but rather complicated latch. As we emerged I commented on his evident familiarity with the internal fitting of his ship’s bakery. “Built her,” he explained, and plunged, doffing his cap, into the sick bay. There were over a thousand men on board, and about half a dozen of them had found their way here. “Well, T----,” said the captain, addressing by name an able seaman of a stature well-nigh equalling his own, “how’s that hand getting on?” The man stood up and met his captain’s eyes without embarrassment; just, in fact, as one citizen regards another. “Nicely, thank you, sir,” he replied. “Hit your man in a softer place next time,” said the captain, and the seaman laughed, nursing his bandaged hand. “I will, surely,” he said. A chuckle ran round the sick bay. I had the sensation of a stranger left trying to fathom a family joke. “Want to talk to ’em?” asked the captain a minute later, as we stopped to watch a veteran superintending the splicing of a five-inch wire by two ordinary seamen. “Here, B----,” he called one of the youngsters, again by name. The boy dropped his marling-spike and responded smartly. “Where were you raised?” asked the captain. “Kentucky, sir,” came the reply in the soft Southern drawl. The lad stood before us without a trace of sheepishness or apparently aware of any distinction in being thus singled out by his captain by name from amongst a thousand other men. The captain nodded. “Trade?” “Farm-hand, sir.” It was my turn, and I asked him the question no sailor has ever been able to answer. “Why did you come to sea?” He grinned, showing two rows of perfect teeth. “Him,” he said, and jerked his head over his shoulder at the other ordinary seaman wincing beneath the whispered exhortations of his instructor. “Him an’ me ...” adding, “He’s my chum....” Strong men have tried to write books on all that was contained in these two sentences; most have died with the task unfinished.