"Can't help it," retorted the musical enthusiast, winding the handle of the instrument. "I think he's perfectly priceless!" He set the needle, stepped back a pace and stood beaming appreciatively into the vociferous trumpet while the song blared forth.
"Reminds me," said Harcourt, laying down a novel and rising from the corner of the settee where he had curled himself, "I must write to my young sister for her birthday. Lend me a bit of your notepaper, Billy."
His friend complied with the request without raising his eyes. "How d'you spell 'afford'?" he enquired.
"Two f's," replied Harcourt. "'Least I think so. Can I have a dip at your ink?"
"I thought it was two, but it doesn't look right, somehow." The two pens scratched in unison.
Matthews, the Midshipman of the previous Night Patrol, had stretched himself on an adjacent settee and fallen asleep immediately after dinner.
Lettigne, otherwise known as "Bosh," amused himself by juggling with a banana, two oranges and a walnut, relics of his dessert. His performance was being lazily watched by the Sub from the depths of the arm-chair which he had drawn as near to the glowing stove as the heat would allow. It presently attracted the notice of two other Midshipmen who had finished a game of picquet and were casting about them for a fresh distraction. This conversion of edible objects into juggling paraphernalia presently moved one to protest.
"Why don't you eat that banana, Bosh, instead of chucking it about?" he enquired.
"'Cause I can't," said the exponent of legerdemain.
"Why not?" queried the other.