He was a short, tubby individual with watery-blue eyes and a flat, rubicund nose. Quiet and unassuming, his arrival was hailed with acclamation. Had he asked for a silver trumpet and a pair of wings of a slightly different type to those worn by airmen no doubt the delighted officers would have done their level best to accede to his request. As it was they subscribed and purchased a trumpet, the sounds of which floated across the parade-ground in a manner calculated to raise the martial spirit of all ranks well above boiling-point. Morning, noon, and night the clarion-like notes made the welkin ring. From Réveillé to Retreat and Last Post, and whenever circumstances demanded, there was the depot bugler with his highly-polished and tasselled trumpet. For nearly a week this idyllic state of affairs continued, until the wellnigh exhausted bugler applied for leave in order to proceed to Belfast to bury a near relative. He was granted seven days, and took his departure forthwith. A gloom descended over Sableridge. The polished bugle was silent, and reposed on a green baize-covered table in the orderly-room like a fairy princess awaiting the arrival of the enchanter to restore her to life. The week passed, but no bugler returned. At the end of ten days he was posted as a deserter. Enquiries at Belfast showed that he had not been seen there, nor were any of his relations in need of his services as a mourner. Then came the staggering blow. The meek and mild musical treasure was under lock and key, arrested by the civil police for at least half a dozen burglaries. The last heard of him was that he had received a sentence calculated to carry him well beyond the "duration", and the shattered idol was not replaced. Sableridge carried on without a bugler. A day or so after the disappearance of the bugler Derek had to take his crew out into the bay for further instruction. It was mostly compass work and fixing positions by cross-bearings, and since speed was against successful work, the boat was slowed down and a trawl shot. This was killing two birds with one stone: there was plenty of time for compass-bearings, while there was a chance of supplying the mess with fish. The first cast was a failure owing to the net getting foul of a submerged rock, but on the second attempt it became evident by the weight of the net that something was enmeshed. "We've a good haul this time, I think," exclaimed Derek. "Let's hope so, sir," announced the coxswain. "We can't be too sure, though. I remember my brother telling me about when he was off the Dardanelles--up Mudros way to be exact--he an' some pals did a lot of trawling. They thought they had a jolly good catch, but when they hauled in the net they found two dead mules and two old boots." Slowly the weed-encumbered meshes were hauled inboard until the bulging pocket came in sight, packed with white and grey writhing fish--skate, flounder, and two large dog-fish.