n envelope for me, to save time, while I get the
stamp." His friend complied with the request and picked up his pen to
address his own epistle. As he did so the prostrate juggler, with a
sudden, spasmodic recrudescence of energy, flung his two assailants off
him and struggled to a sitting position. They were on him again like
wolves, but as they bore him prostrate to the deck he clutched wildly
at a corner of the table-cloth.

The next moment the conflict was inextricably involved with the
table-cloth, letters, note-paper, envelopes and ink descending upon the
combatants in a cascade.

"You clumsy owls," roared Harcourt, returning from his locker. "Now,
where's my letter...." He searched among the debris.

"I say, do buck up," wailed the sleepy voice on the threshold.

"Buck up?" echoed Harcourt. "Buck up! How the devil can I buck
up--ah, here we are." He picked up an envelope, glanced carelessly
under the still open flap and sat down to address it. "Got yours,
Billy? Here's the stamp."

"Yes," replied the other, grovelling in the darkness under the table.
"This is it." He reappeared with a letter in his hand.

"The Padre----" again began the impatient envoy.

"All right--all right!" Mordaunt hurriedly affixed the stamp and
addressed the envelope without looking at the contents. "Here you
are," he said, holding it out. The messenger departed hastily.

The bang of the door awoke the Sub.

"Now, then," he said. "Enough of this. Switch off that cursed
gramophone. Get up off the deck. Mop that ink up and square off the
table-cloth. Knock off scrapping, you three hooligans."

The hooligans obeyed reluctantly, and sat panting and dishevelled on
the settee. By degrees the Mess resumed its tranquillity.

Harcourt stretched his slim form and yawned sleepily. "I'm going to
turn in now. And to-morrow know all men that I start training."

"That's right," said Lettigne, still panting and adjusting his
disordered garments. "Nothing like being really fit--ready to go
anywhere an' do anything--that's my motto." He rang the bell and
ordered a bottle of ginger beer.

[1] Tinned sausages. A delicacy peculiar to Gunrooms of the Fleet.

CHAPTER V

UNCLE BILL

Sir William Thorogood rose from the table on which lay a confusion of
papers, drawings and charts. He walked across the cabin to the tiled
fireplace, selected a cigar from his case, and lit it with precise care.

"You're right,"