“Well, if ever I’m Sub of a Gunroom,” said Lynwood, “I’ll have good pictures or none at all.”
“Probably you will think differently then,” Reedham answered, with a smile of experience. “One’s ideas change at sea. One gets accustomed, you know.”
Later in the evening the five senior midshipmen arrived and burst into the Gunroom, followed by the two remaining juniors, Driss and Dyce. The place was soon full of the noise of greetings, the ringing of bells, and the ordering of drinks. When dinner was over, Krame made out a preliminary list of the duties of each midshipman, in which it was laid down who were to run the boats, who were to keep watch together, and to what station each was to go for the ship’s evolutions. Then began a series of questions. Krame, a dark, large-eyed youth, whose good looks dissipation had been powerless to destroy, seated himself on the table.
“Now then, Warts, how many of you are teetotallers? Prove!”
They proved by bending their arms at the elbow and holding out their hands in drill-book fashion. Krame counted.
“One, two, three, four.... Driss, aren’t you a T.T.?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to be.”
“I’m not going to ask you to sign the pledge, you know. You can drink yourselves dead when you go ashore for all I care. All I want to know is, how many of you are not going to use your wine bills on board. Then we can use them—see? What about you, Cunwell? Aren’t you T.T.?”