In the Pathshire the relations between Wardroom and Gunroom were excellent—a circumstance which, as had been said at that last dinner in the King Arthur, went far towards the making of a Happy Ship. There was not one watch-keeping Lieutenant with whom John was reluctant to spend four hours on the bridge. It was necessary, when the watch began, to make a swift estimate of his officer’s mood, and to regulate his conduct accordingly. Sometimes the four hours were allowed to pass almost in silence, and, in any case, it was not the midshipman’s part to begin anything but a strictly Service conversation. Often it was cocoa that loosened the officer’s tongue.
“Well, young fellah-me-lad,” Dendy, the ship’s rake, would begin. “I’m damned bored. I don’t know about you?” This would open the way for tales of Dendy’s invariably triumphant loves—tales which John had found he was required, not to comment upon, but to believe. Dendy had his moments of seriousness, too, when he would take hold of John’s arm and explain that love could not always be lightly regarded....
Lanfell, a stolid salt-horse, was a less amusing companion. At times when other officers were more carefully dressed, Lanfell had a habit of appearing in a sweater and scarf, an incredibly old monkey-jacket and trousers, and a pair of sea-boots. When at sea he would ask his midshipman how he would moor ship, or rig sheers, or lay out a bower anchor, and the watch was liable to degenerate into a peripatetic seamanship lecture. If he could think of no more questions he would sometimes consent to be diverted into lighter paths; but even then his imagination led him with painful regularity to a football field. He was never tired of explaining that he was neither a mathematician nor a theorist.
“I can’t chase X—never could,” he would say. “And in a destroyer with a sea running I’d rather have a drop o’ rough seamanship than all your ballistics.”
“Then you don’t believe in specializing, sir?”
“Specializing? Oh, I don’t know. I suppose the specialists have the pull. But there’s still room for the seaman—more room than most fellows think.”
There were times when Lanfell’s faith failed him, and he saw himself as a salt-horse eternally waiting for promotion; but such misgivings he drowned quietly. His skin would become pasty and opaque, his eyes heavy, his movement cumbrous. Then, by taking violent exercise and cold baths, he would restore his health and hope. The Service suited him, and, save in those periods when his wine bill mounted prodigiously, he was happy.
The most exciting watch-keeping partner was undoubtedly the First Lieutenant; but his visits to the bridge were voluntary, and unfortunately few. He would appear at odd hours—usually at night when he had been unable to sleep. At first he would take no notice of anyone, but stand at the end of the bridge, staring down upon the chains. Then, rousing himself jerkily—every movement of his was a jerk—he would do breathing exercises, a performance so strange that the Quartermasters shook their heads and sometimes tapped their foreheads significantly.
When the breathing exercises were finished the First Lieutenant would turn swiftly, his cap over his eyes, and rattle up to monkey’s island, where the officer of the watch and his midshipman were standing by the compass.
“Ee!” he began. This was a strange sound, peculiar to himself, which was forced from his throat—apparently in spite of some physical obstruction. “Ee! Finish your watch for you. You go below. Anything to turn over?”