The Torpedo Coxswain who had overheard the conversation went forward to herald the tidings along the Mess deck. "Blime!" said a bearded seaman ecstatically, when he heard the intelligence, "first we sinks a perishin' submarine, an' then strike me giddy if the bloke don't lush us up to a funeral ashore! I reckon that's actin' proper 'andsome."
At 1 P.M. the funeral party fell in on the upper deck; the brown-gaitered firing party, with rifles and bandoliers, and an attendant bugler, were given final injunctions by the Gunner.
"Don't forget now, when we arrives at the mortuary, dead-'ouse or what-not, the firing party will rest on their arms reversed, the muzzle of the rifle placed on the toe of the right boot, 'ands resting on the butt, chins sunk upon the breast, at the same time assumin' an aspec' cheerful but subdued."
The Lieutenant-Commander arrived on deck and interrupted the oration.
"What's that brigade fallen in forward there, Mr. Foulkes?" he inquired. "We aren't giving general leave."
"Them's the mourners, sir," said the Gunner, sternly surveying the crape-swathed ranks, who, after the fashion of sailors when about to go ashore, were preening themselves and squaring off each other's blue-jean collars.
"Mourners, 'shun!"
The mourners sprang to attention and gazed solemnly into vacancy.
"How many of the port watch are landing, in the name of mercy?" asked the Commanding Officer.
"The 'ole lot, sir," said the Gunner, "bein' wishful to pay respec' to the dead."