At five minutes to eleven we have a quarter of an hour's interval, and then do English for an hour, followed by French for another hour. I am no good at French, so indulge in a game of nibs with my neighbour, who does not love 'parley-voo' any more than I do. We are detected, worse luck, and are rewarded with a 'mod' each. ('Moderate attention' in the daily report, involving one hour's extra drill.) Bugle sounds 'Dismiss studies.' I am not sorry, as I am famishing, and it is pudding day, too. The bugle sounds again for dinner, and we all assemble in the messroom. Grace is said by one of the two chief captains, and here come the joints and pies, wheeled round on small tables appropriated to them. Roast mutton falls to the lot of my table; this is _not_ my favourite dish, and I get the servant to bring me some beefsteak pie in its place. Meat course over, I help the tart--cherry, with cream, and excellent. My enjoyment of it is rather hindered by Brown, who is heaving bread at me; however, he is spotted by the chief captain, and told to go to the defaulters' table at tea. Brown says it is all my fault for looking such an ass, which may be true, but is not polite. I vow vengeance on Brown: he will avoid me after dinner, I expect. The tarts being polished off, and grace again said, we get half an hour to ourselves before muster. I spend it in the 'sanc' ('sanctuary,' a special place in the messroom, reserved for senior cadets) reading the _Strand_, which has always something jolly in it. I am in the middle of a blood-curdling tale, when the corporal comes to clear the messroom. I shove the book in my drawer, and depart to the middle deck. We fall in, and are marched off to studies. This afternoon we have mathematics until 3.30, when we shift into flannels, and make for the boats as fast as we can, with towels and bathing-drawers. I am lucky, and get a shoreboat soon, so secure a good place on the bathing stage. It is a perfect day, just the day for a bathe; and here comes the officer of the day ashore in a gig, with the bugler. On reaching the stage they disembark, and the boat waits about in case of accidents. The bugle sounds 'Advance,' and immediately there is a sound of great splashing, and the water is alive with heads. I have a jolly swim out to one of the sailing cutters, and boarding her get another dive from her bow. Bugle sounds 'Retreat' all too soon, and out of the water we have to go, _nolens volens_.