r fellow-men. A tiny
pin-point of light winked from a yard-arm near by to another pin-point
in the Cruiser line: Somebody was answering an invitation to dinner at
7.45 p.m., with many thanks; then, reminder of sterner things, a
searchlight leaped out spluttering over their heads, and swept to and
fro across the sky like the paint-brush of a giant.

A half-drowsy Midshipman in the bows of the cutter watched the message
of hospitality blinking through space; he consulted the luminous dial
on his wrist. "H'm," he observed to his companion, "I thought it was
getting on for dinner-time. Funny how quickly one gets hungry again."

A hail challenged them from the darkness, and a towering outline loomed
familiarly ahead.

"Aye, aye!" shouted the voice of the India-rubber Man from the stern,
adding in lower tones, "Boathook up forward. Fore halliards in
hand...."

"Home again!" said another voice in the darkness. "And so the long day
wears on..."

* * * * *

Dinner in the Gunroom was over. One by one the occupants became
engrossed in their wonted evening occupations and amusements.

"Mordaunt," said the sandy-haired Midshipman, rising and opening the
gramophone, "would you like to hear George Robey?"

The officer addressed, who was sitting at the table apparently in the
throes of literary composition, raised his head. "No," he replied, "I
wouldn't; I'm writing a letter. 'Sides I've heard that record at least
seven hundred and eighty-one times already."

"Can't help it," retorted the musical enthusiast, winding the handle of
the instrument. "_I_ think he's perfectly priceless!" He set the
needle, stepped back a pace and stood beaming appreciatively into the
vociferous trumpet while the song blared forth.

"Reminds me," said Harcourt, laying down a novel and rising from the
corner of the settee where he had curled himself, "I must write to my
young sister for her birthday. Lend me a bit of your notepaper, Billy."

His friend complied with the request without raising his eyes. "How
d'you spell 'afford'?" he enquired.

"Two f's," replied Harcourt. "'Least I think so. Can I have a dip at
your ink?"

"I thought it was two, but it doesn't look right, somehow." The two
pens scratched in unison.

Matthews, the Midshipman of the previous Night Patrol, had stretched
himself on an adjacent settee and fallen asleep immediately after
dinner.

Lettigne, otherwise known as "Bosh," amus