"James," he said, and laid a hand on the other's shoulder, "before you get busy on the wassail-bowl, my lad, I should like to remind you that the boat's crew will commence training for the Regatta at 7 A.M. to-morrow. No fatheads wanted. Enough said."
The Gunnery Lieutenant looked up from a game of draughts with Double-O
Gerrard, the Assistant Paymaster. "Who've you got dining with you,
Jimmy?" he asked. The introduction of "new blood" into a Mess, even for
the evening, is generally a matter of interest to the inmates.
"An old uncle of mine," was the reply. "He signalled from the Flagship that he was coming to dinner. I don't know what he's doing up here."
Mouldy Jakes, who was sitting on an arm of the sofa watching the game of draughts, looked across at Thorogood.
"Sir William?" he asked. "Is that man of mystery up here? What's he up to?"
"Don't know," replied Thorogood. "Dirty work, I suppose."
The Young Doctor assumed an expression of rapture. "What!" he cried, "my old college chum Sir William!" Then with a swift change of mimicry he bent into a senile pose with nodding head and shaking fingers, mumbling at his lips:
"Ah! Ah!" he wheezed, "how time flies! I mind the day when he and I were lads together—hee-hee—brave lads … Eton and Christ Church together——" He broke off into a decrepit chuckle.
"Dry up, Pills, you ass," cried the Torpedo Lieutenant, laughing. "You aren't a bit funny—in fact, I'm not sure you aren't rather bad form."
"Bad form?" echoed the First Lieutenant. "Let us see now. What's the penalty for bad form, Pay? I've forgotten."