Naval Occasions, and Some Traits of the Sailor-man. Bartimeus

an Affliction known as "prickly heat," beside which chastisement with scorpions is futile and ineffectual; moreover, you must meet the same faces day after day, month after month, at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, till Junior Officers of His Majesty's Navy have been known to revile one another over each other's style of masticating food. From these conditions of life spring, indeed, a candid and illuminating intimacy; but they are also at times responsible for a weariness of the soul that passes utterly all boredom.

      * * * * *

      The trouble began in the bathroom, an apartment 12 feet long by 8 feet broad, and occupied at the time by six people in various stages of their ablutions. It concerned the ownership of a piece of soap, which may seem a trivial enough matter—as indeed it was; but when you have lain sweating under the awnings all through a breathless night, when, having watched another aching dawn creep over the sea, you descend to splash sulkily in three inches of lukewarm water, the tired brain lacks a fine sense of the proportion of things.

      It finished as suddenly as it flared up, and both combatants realised the childishness of it all ere the blood had time to dry on their damaged knuckles. But beyond a peevish request that they should not hold their dripping noses over the basins, no one present appeared interested or dismayed—which was a very bad sign indeed.

      * * * * *

      The Senior Midshipman burst into the Gunroom with a whoop of joy and flung the leave-book on the table.

      "What did he say?" chorussed the inmates anxiously.

      "Said we could take the third cutter, an' go to Blazes in her," replied the delegate breathlessly, grovelling under the table for his gun-case. "We can clear out till Sunday night, an' if there's a scratch on the new paint when we come back"—the flushed face appeared for an instant—"we'll all be crucified!"

      Whereupon ensued swift and awful pandemonium. Three blissful days of untrammelled freedom ashore, in which to eat, bathe, and sleep at will! The Mess rose with one accord and blessed the name of the Commander in ornate phraseology of the Sea. Four navigating experts flung themselves upon a large-scale Admiralty Chart: guns and cartridges appeared as if by magic. A self-appointed Committee of Supply, wrangling amicably, invaded the pantry; blankets were hurriedly dragged from the hammock-nettings, while willing hands lowered the cutter from her davits. In crises such as these there is no need to detail workers for any particular duty. Each one realises his own particular metier and is a law unto himself.

      "Hoist foresail!" The boat sheered off lazily from the gangway, and the bowmen tugged and strained at the halliards. "Set mainsail!" A light breeze whispered in from the open sea, and the rippled water clucked and gurgled along the clinker-built sides. Perched on a bundle of rugs in the stern sat the Coxswain, one hand on the tiller, the other shading his eyes from the afternoon sun. The remainder of the crew disposed themselves in more or less inelegant attitudes of ease in the bottom of the boat. She had been rigged and provisioned in silence—not lightly does one imperil one's emancipation by making a noise alongside; but once clear of the ship, the youth tending the main-sheet lifted up his voice in song, a babble of spontaneous nonsense set to a half-remembered tune—

      "Isn't this a bit of all-right!

      Oh, isn't this a bit of all-right!"

      he chanted joyously, eyes half closed under the brim of his tilted helmet. Forgotten the weary monotony of ship routine, with its watch-keeping and school, squabbling and recrimination, and the ceaseless adjustment of the scales of discipline. Forward in the bows one of the bowmen hove the lead, chanting imaginary soundings with ultra-professional intonation: "A-a-and a ha' five … " Clinging to the weather shroud, another, a slim, white-clad figure against the blue of sea and sky, declaimed "The Ancient Mariner"—or as much of it as he could remember.

      The islands, that half an hour earlier had been but vague outlines quivering in the heat-haze, took form and substance. Rock-guarded inlets crept up to beaches of white sand where the kelp and drift-wood of ages formed a barrier at high-water mark, and overhanging palms threw shadows deep and delectably mysterious. As the water shoaled, seaweed stretched purple tentacles upward out of the gloom, swaying and undulating towards the swirl beneath the rudder. A half-clad figure in the bows, trailing naked toes over the side, shattered the sleepy silence with shouts that sent the echoes rioting among the rocks. Overhead a startled gull wheeled inquisitively.

      "Hard a-port! Now, steady as you go!" With lowered sails and oars rising and dipping lazily, the boat headed towards an inlet whose shelving beach promised good camping-ground. Presently came the order—

      "Way enough!" The oars clattered down on to the thwarts, the anchor splashed overside, and a moment later a dozen figures were swimming lustily for thrice-blessed terra firma.

      A tent was pitched and the precious guns ferried ashore. An intrepid party of explorers headed off into the jungle in search of pigeon. Others played desultory Rugby football in the shallows, chased lizards, rent the air with song. The long day passed all too quickly. Swiftly the tropic night swept in over painted sky and tree-top. Ghost-like figures came splashing from pools, sliding down from trees, floating shoreward on improvised rafts, to gather round the fire and fizzling frying-pans. Tinned sausages ("Bangers") and bacon, jam, sardines and bananas, cocoa, beer, and sloe-gin: the Argonauts guzzled shamelessly.

      When it was over and pipes and cigarettes were lit, some one rose and flung an armful of dry kelp into the white heart of the fire. It spluttered angrily and then flared, throwing an arc of crimson light on the beach, deepening the obscurity that ringed the seated group.

      The Argonaut nearest the fire picked up a pebble and pitched it lazily at a neighbour. "What about a song, you slacker! Something with a chorus." The other removed his pipe from his mouth, wriggled into a sitting posture and, hugging the corners of his blanket over his shoulders, started a song. It was from a comic opera two years old, but it was the last thing they heard before leaving England, and the refrain went ringing across the star-lit bay. The firelight waned, and a yellow moon crept up out of the sea, setting a shimmering pathway to the edge of the world.

      "Hai-yah!" yawned one. "So sleepy." He hollowed out the sand beneath his hip-bone, drew his blanket closer round him, and was asleep. One by one the singers were silent, and as the moon, full sail upon the face of heaven, flooded the islands with solemn light, the last Argonaut rolled over and began to snore. The waves lapped drowsily along the beach; tiny crabs crept out in scurrying, sidelong rushes to investigate the disturbers of their peace; the dying embers of the fire clinked and whispered in the silence.

      * * * * *

      The Commander, smoking on the after sponson, smiled as the sound of oars came faintly across the water. Out of the darkness drifted the hum of voices, and presently he heard a clear laugh, mirthful and carefree. Knocking the ashes out of his pipe, he nodded sagely, as though in answer to an unspoken question.

      VI.

      A GUNROOM SMOKING CIRCLE.

      Be it understood that Gunroom Officers do not usually talk at breakfast. The right-minded entrench themselves behind newspapers, and deal in all seriousness and silence with such fare as it has pleased the Messman to provide. In harbour, those favoured of the gods make a great business of opening and reading letters, pausing between mouthfuls to smirk in an irritating and unseemly manner. But it is not until one reaches the marmalade stage, and the goal of repletion is nigh, that speech is pardonable, and is then usually confined to observations on the incompetency of the cook in the matter of scrambling eggs and the like.

      Abreast the screen-door, which opened from the battery to the quarter-deck, the ship's side curved suddenly into a semicircular bastion. It was thus designed to give the main-deck gun a larger arc of fire, but had other advantages—affording a glimpse ahead of splayed-out seas racing aft from the bow, and in fine weather a sunny space sheltered from the wind by casemate and superstructure.

      Here, one morning after breakfast, came the Gunroom Smokers, pipe and tobacco-pouches in hand. Cigarettes were all very well in their way: "two draws and a spit" snatched during stand-easy in the forenoon. A cigar was a satisfying enough smoke after dinner when one's finances