minute a hush settled over the group as silently they awaited the coming of the man who, to them, represented all that was Omnipotent upon earth. The breeze led the shadow of the White Ensign a fantastic dance across the spotless planking, and rustled the papers on the baize-covered table. Overhead a gull soared, screaming at intervals, and then swooped suddenly to the water. The owner of the cherished curl, who was what is technically known in the Service as a "bird," sucked his teeth thoughtfully and speculated as to the probable extent of his punishment. The Second-class Stoker fallen-in beside him, who had broken his leave twenty-four hours, and apparently expected to be executed, suddenly sniffled and was reproved in an undertone by the Master-at-Arms. "'Old yer row!" said that dignitary. Then, raising his voice, he shouted, "'Faulters, 'Shun!"

The Captain's Clerk, who had been abstractedly watching the sea-gull's antics and thinking about trout-fishing, came to earth with a start: the waiting group stiffened to attention and saluted. The Captain walked to the table and picked up the charge-sheet.

'"Erbert 'Awkins!" snapped the Master-at-Arms. "Off cap. Absenover leave twenty-four hours, sir."

The Second-class Stoker stepped forward; it was his first offence in the Service, and the Adam's-apple in his throat worked like a piston. Suddenly recollecting, he snatched off his cap and stood, moistening dry lips.

"How long has this man been in the Service?" asked the Captain, grave eyes on the delinquent's face.

"Four months, sir," replied his Clerk.

Then to the culprit: "Why did you break your leave?" The lad shook his head in obstinate silence. As a matter of fact, he had broken it because a glib-tongued slut ashore kept him too drunk to return till he was penniless. But what was the use of telling all that to a Being with four gold rings on his sleeve, and grey eyes like gimlets in the shadow of the cap-peak. He wouldn't understand how desperately bad the liquor had been, and the way the women talked...

"Why did you break your leave?" The voice was neither harsh nor impatient. Its tone merely implied that the speaker not only wanted an answer but meant to have one. Rather a kind voice for a Captain. Queer little wrinkles he had round the corners of his mouth and eyes ... made a bloke look wise-like ... as though after all ... Lord! How his head ached.... Steady eyes those were...

"It's like this 'ere, sir——" The gates of sulky reserve opened suddenly and without warning: in a flood of words came the sorry explanation, sordid, incoherent, clothed in half-learned patois of the lower deck. But the figure in the gold-peaked cap seemed to accept it, such as it was, for presently he nodded dismissal.

"Cautioned," he said curtly.

With a click of the heels, the escort and their prisoner wheeled before the table. The Commander made a brief report, and the Captain scanned a few papers. The charge was desertion.

"Anything to say?"

"No, sir."

"Why did you desert?"

"I'm fed up with the Navy."

The Captain's eyes grew stern, and he nodded as one who comprehends. There had been moments in his own career when he too had been "fed up with the Navy." But life holds other things than obedience to inclinations.

Now this deserter represented a type that is to be met with in both Services, these days of "piping peace." Recruited from the slums of a great city, bone-lazy and vicious as a weasel, small wonder he found a life wherein men worked hard and cleanly little to his taste. The immaculate cleanliness and clock-work regularity around him were bad enough, but far worse was the discipline. It astonished him at first; then, half-awed, he hated it with all the sullen savagery of his warped nature. The so-called Socialism of black-garbed orators, idly listened to on Sunday afternoons in bygone days, had hinted at such possibilities—but here he met it face to face at every turn.

For a while—a very little while—he defied it, as he had defied impassive policemen in guttersnipe days, with shrill, meaningless obscenities. Then he strove to elude it, and was clouted grievously by O'Leary, the brawny Chief Stoker, in that he had skulked from his lawfully appointed task. He had meant to drop a fire-bar on O'Leary's head for that, but hadn't the courage requisite for murder. Because of his dirty habits and an innate habit for acquiring other men's gear, he was not beloved of his messmates; and to be unpopular on the mess-deck of a man-of-war means that the sooner you seek another walk of life the better. He strove to seek it, accordingly, burrowing back into the teeming slum-life of yore, until one night, in the flare of a hawker's barrow, a policeman's hand closed upon his collar.

"... I think there's time. I believe we'll make a man of you yet. I'll deal with you by warrant."

The escort swung him on his heel.

The Captain glanced again at the charge-sheet and thence to the third culprit before him.

"You were drunk on leave?"

"No, sir."

"But the Officer of the Patrol and the Officer of the Watch and the Surgeon all say you were drunk."

The "bird" sighed deeply. "I 'adn't 'ad no more'n a drop, sir——" he began.

"Deprived of one day's pay," interrupted the Captain; "and get your hair cut."

"'Air cut—forfeit one day's pay," echoed the Master-at-Arms. "Hon cap; 'bout turn, quick march!"

*      *      *      *      *

The day passed as most days do in harbour. In the afternoon the Captain played a game of golf, and in the evening dined with a brother Captain. During the meal they discussed submarine signalling and a new putter. The Commander, who contemplated matrimony, was in a conservatory conducting himself in a manner calculated to reduce his ship's company—had they been present—to babbling delirium. In the twilight, the Captain's Clerk, with rod and fly-book, meandered beside a stream twenty miles away. The Master-at-Arms, who had a taste for melodrama, witnessed from a plush-lined box "The Body-Snatcher's Revenge" in the company of Mrs and Miss Master-at-Arms and a quart of stout. On board, in the foremost cell, sat a recovered deserter under sentence of ninety days' detention.

"Gawd!" he whined—and in his voice was an exceeding bitterness—"Wotcher want to 'ate me for?"

Now these things were happening at about the same time, so you see the drift of his argument with his Maker.

III.

A GALLEY'S DAY.

Boom! On board the Flagship a puff of smoke rose and dissolved in the breeze; the cluster of whalers and gigs that had been hovering about the starting-line sped away before the wind. The bay to windward