“I should hope not.... Well, don’t do it again.”
“No; I’m sorry.”
“And don’t be so bloody polite. This isn’t a dame’s school.... Had some tea?”
The Sub pressed a bell that swung from a cord above his head. The pantry-hatch opened with a click, and a pale face appeared—the face of the man in the bowler hat to whom they had yielded place in the picket-boat.
“Tea for these officers, messman,” said the Sub.
Lynwood and Fane-Herbert exchanged glances, but they were careful to say nothing. They knew that they would be wise to keep the knowledge of their mistake locked away in their own hearts. But Cunwell perceived that he might score a point.
“I told you so, Lynwood,” he said, so that all might hear.
“What did you tell him?” the Sub asked, wondering if they had been betting against the Sub’s offering them tea.
“When we were coming off in the picket-boat,” Cunwell began, “the messman came down at the last moment, and”—Sentley kicked him vigorously, but he continued, nevertheless—“and Sentley and Lynwood and Fane-Herbert thought he was a Wardroom officer, and cleared out for him.”