“He’ll always belong to it,” said Mayhew. “He’s only camouflaged, and one of these days he’ll come back to us. The Navy ain’t like any other profession: you can’t suddenly become something else by dressing up in a different rig”—he pointed to the effigy in armour—“any more than I’d cease to be a Gunnery Lieutenant if I shoved on that fellow’s superfine tin suitings.”
“This,” said Longridge, “is developing into a ‘Branch-kagg.’[7] I’m going to turn in.”
“Breakfast at ten!” shouted the host as Longridge detached himself from the group and disappeared up a corridor.
“And, anyhow,” said Brakespear, “even if our Podgie fades away, to become a Lieutenant-Colonel in a gorgeous uniform——”
“Sky-blue, ain’t it, Podgie?” interposed Aughtlone. Brakespear disregarded the interruption.
“Even if, I say, Podgie departs from our midst, the Navy remains. And if I—even I—go up in the next ‘Jutland,’ or Foster trips over one of his infernal machines accidentally in the dark——”
“Or I get wafted skywards clearing a mine-field next week,” said Aughtlone.
“Exactly.... Others would take our places. The individual doesn’t count.—Podgie, you’re dripping candle-grease on Tony’s ormulu carpet....”
“I’m going to bed,” said the stout one. “You’re all getting a trifle maudlin....”
Foster yawned. “I’m going too. But Brakes is right. What’s it matter what happens to us as long as we shove the wheel round a spoke or two in our short trick?” He wagged his head solemnly. “Life’s dev’lish short, anyway.... Come on, Podgie. ‘And so to bed.’ ... ’Night all!”