“—making nine stencils in all of my initials G.M.,” I heard him say. “Further, you will find attached to your rudder, and you, too, Sir”—he bowed to Captain Malan yet again—“one fourteen-inch Mark IV practice torpedo, as issued to first-class torpedo-boats, properly buoyed. I have sent full particulars by telegraph to the umpires, and have requested them to judge on the facts as they—appear.” He nodded through the large window to the stencilled _Devolution_ awink with brass work in the morning sun, and ceased. Captain Panke faced us. I remembered that this was only play, and caught myself wondering with what keener agony comes the real defeat. “Good God, Johnny!” he said, dropping his lower lip like a child, “this young pup says he has put us both out of action. Inconceivable—eh? My first command of one of the class. Eh? What shall we do with him? What shall we do with him—eh?” “As far as I can see, there’s no getting over the stencils,” his companion answered. “Why didn’t I have the nets down? Why didn’t I have the nets down?” The cry tore itself from Captain Panke’s chest as he twisted his hands. “I suppose we’d better wait and find out what the umpires will say. The Admiral won’t be exactly pleased.” Captain Malan spoke very soothingly. Moorshed looked out through the stern door at Two Six Seven. Pyecroft and I, at attention, studied the paintwork opposite. Captain Panke had dropped into his desk chair, and scribbled nervously at a blotting-pad. Just before the tension became unendurable, he looked at his junior for a lead. “What—what are you going to do about it, Johnny—eh?” “Well, if you don’t want him, I’m going to ask this young gentleman to breakfast, and then we’ll make and mend clothes till the umpires have decided.” Captain Panke flung out a hand swiftly. “Come with me,” said Captain Malan. “Your men had better go back in the dinghy to—their—own—ship.” “Yes, I think so,” said Moorshed, and passed out behind the captain. We followed at a respectful interval, waiting till they had ascended the ladder. Said the sentry, rigid as the naked barometer behind him: “For Gawd’s sake! ’Ere, come ’ere! For Gawd’s sake! What’s ’appened? Oh! come ’_ere_ an’ tell.” “Tell? You?” said Pyecroft. Neither man’s lips moved, and the words were whispers: “Your ultimate illegitimate grandchildren might begin to understand, not you—nor ever will.” “Captain Malan’s galley away, Sir,” cried a voice above; and one replied: “Then get those two greasers into their dinghy and hoist the blue peter. We’re out of action.” “Can you do it, Sir?” said Pyecroft at the foot of the ladder. “Do you think it is in the English language, or do you not?” “I don’t think I can, but I’ll try. If it takes me two years, I’ll try.”