The "old top", otherwise Bobby Beverley, late Sub-Lieutenant of the Motor Boat Reserve, squared his shoulders and thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of a well-worn salt-stained monkey-jacket. "Candidly, dear old thing, I don't like it one little bit," he replied. "A fish out of water isn't in it." "I believe that's an undisputed fact," interrupted the other. "And I jolly well begin to realize it," continued Beverley with conviction. "There are thousands in the same boat, but that doesn't alter my position. Fact remains, I see rocks ahead." "Is that so?" inquired Villiers seriously. "What is it? Short of the ready?" Beverley shook his head. "Not that," he replied, with the confidence that a Service man will display when discussing financial matters with a brother-officer. "I've been careful, after a fashion, and there's my gratuity, and a bit of prize-money when that comes along. Enough to carry on with for a bit; but, hang it all, what's a fellow to do? I don't like the idea of taking on a job in an office. When you've been in charge of a crew for the last three years, you don't like knuckling under and being bossed; you know what I mean." "Precisely, old bird," agreed Villiers. "Same here. I'd go off to Rhodesia like a shot, only I don't know a blessed thing about farming. I'd go to sea again, but the Mercantile Marine is chock-a-block with demobbed Royal Naval Reserve men with Board of Trade certificates and deep-sea experience. That's where we're bunkered, old boy. But never mind. Something'll turn up. It's a case of grasping Dame Fortune by the forelock, whatever that is. 'Fraid the only forelock I'm acquainted with is the forelock of an anchor, and that's apt to let you down badly if you don't watch it." The two chums had encountered each other just outside the docks at Southampton. Both had recently been demobilized from the parent ship _Hermione,_ Villiers' "M.L." having been paid off a fortnight before Beverley's craft had gone to lay up indefinitely in the Hamble River.