Here, one morning after breakfast, came the Gunroom Smokers, pipe and tobacco-pouches in hand. Cigarettes were all very well in their way: "two draws and a spit" snatched during stand-easy in the forenoon. A cigar was a satisfying enough smoke after dinner when one's finances permitted it; but while the day of infinite possibilities still lay ahead, and the raw, new sunlight flushed the world with promise, then was the time for briar or clay: black, well seasoned, and of a pungent sweetness.
Each smoker settled into his favourite nook, and, cap tilted over his nose, with feet drawn up and hand-clasped knees, prepared to sit in kindly judgment on the Universe. The Sub-Lieutenant blew a mighty cloud of smoke and gave a sigh of contentment. He had kept the Middle Watch. From midnight till four that morning he had been on the bridge, moving between the faint glow of the binnacle and the chart-house, busying himself with a ruler and dividers, and faint lines on the surface of the chart. He was clear-eyed and serene of brow, as befitted a man who had seen the dawning. For a like reason he had neglected to shave.
"What's the news?" inquired the Assistant Paymaster between puffs. The ship had been three days at sea, and was even then a hundred and fifty miles from her destination. But very early in the morning a tired-eyed Operator in the Wireless-house had sat, measuring in dots and dashes the beating of the world's pulse.
"A disastrous earthquake—" began a Midshipman, reading from the closely-written sheet.
"Oh, hang you and your earthquake!" said the Sub. "I'm sick of earthquakes—who won the Test Match?" Which, when you consider the matter, is no bad attitude towards life in which to start the day.
"A new aeroplane—" resumed the reader.
"Talkin' of aeroplanes," interrupted some one, "I once knew a girl——"
"Why don't they have Snotties in the Flying Corps?" chimed in a third. "Why, if I were in the Government, I'd——"
But the reader continued in tranquil indifference. Quite a number of years had passed since he first learned that in Gunroom communities to stop speaking on account of interruptions meant spending your days in the silence of a Trappist.
"... at the point of the bayonet, the enemy retreating in disorder." Silence on the group at last. This was of more account than cricket or aeroplanes, for this was War, their trade in theory, and, perchance—and the Fates were wondrous kind—the ultimate destiny of each. The Censor of Governments gave a delighted blast from his pipe—