ith soap-suds and they laughed into each others' eyes.

* * * * *

Breakfast in the Gunroom was, to employ a transatlantic colloquialism,
_some_ breakfast.

There was porridge to start with and then a bloater, followed by hashed
mutton and cold ham ("for them as likes it," the Messman would
say--which meant he pressed it on nobody) and marmalade: perhaps an
apple or two to wind up with to the everlasting honour of the Vegetable
Products Committee who supplied them gratis to the Fleet. Then pipes
and cigarettes appeared from lockers, and the temporarily-closed
flood-gates of conversation reopened. The Wireless Press Message was
discussed and two experts in military strategy proceeded to demonstrate
with the aid of two cruet-stands, a tea-spoon, and the Worcester Sauce,
the precise condition of affairs on the Western Front. "Mark you,"
said one generously, "I'm not criticising either Haig or Joffre. But
it seems to me that we should have pushed _here_"--and upset the
Worcester Sauce.

This mishap to the Loos salient was in process of being righted when
the door opened and a short, square-shouldered figure, with a
wind-reddened face and eyes of a dark, dangerous blue, entered the
mess. He came in stamping his feet and blowing on his hands, calling
loudly for breakfast the while. "My, there's a good fug in here," he
observed appreciatively, and proceeded to divest himself of a duffle
coat, and a pair of night glasses which were slung round his neck in a
leather case. He stumped across to the table, dragging his legs in
heavy leather sea-boots rather wearily.

"Am I hungry?" he demanded, insinuating himself with some difficulty
between the long form and the table, and sitting down. "Oh, no!
Nothing to speak of. Cold? Not a bit: only frozen stiff. Any sleep
last night? Rather! Nearly ten minutes. Porridge, please, and pass
the brown sugar." The remainder of his messmates appeared disposed to
return to strategical discussion. "Did we have any fun last night?"
continued the speaker, raising his voice slightly. "Well, nothing to
speak of. Only downed a Fritz."

"_Downed_ one?" roared the Mess, galvanised suddenly into rapt interest
in the new-comer and all his works.

"Yep. We were Outer Night Patrol last night. Me and Mouldy Jakes. He
does make me smile, that official." A plateful of porridge proceeded
to pass rapidly to its last resting place.

"He _might_ have taken me