“I don’t want to sell my whole wine bill,” said Cunwell. “I may have to stand a boat’s crew a drink or something.”
“Thoughtful and righteous youth!” laughed Howdray.
It was decided that the ten shillings’ worth of drink, which each junior midshipman was allowed to consume in a month, was to be transferred, in four cases out of six, to the seniors. Driss was allowed to keep his because he insisted upon doing so with an Irish vigour that amused them, and Cunwell surrendered only two-thirds of his share.
This preliminary having been settled to Krame’s satisfaction, many drinks were called for with which to celebrate it. The musical Tintern was urged to the piano, and an impromptu sing-song, which was one vast chorus, was begun. It started in decorous fashion with the original version of Riding down from Bangor, followed with much greater enthusiasm by its parody. The standard then fell, and the enthusiasm rose until, when the time came to close the Gunroom, a dozen and more young gentlemen were gathered round Tintern, shouting, between pulls at drinks and puffs at pipes, songs that their sisters—but their sisters have nothing to do with the Gunroom. And Tintern, with a glass at his right hand from which he complained he had not time to drink, played and smiled and sozzled, as Reedham had remarked, to console himself for the might-have-beens.
CHAPTER III
A CHAPTER WITHOUT NAME
I
On the morning of his first full day in the King Arthur John Lynwood enjoyed the luxury of a lie-in until a quarter-past seven. In the course of ordinary routine, he and all midshipmen not engaged in other duties would by this time have done half an hour’s physical drill on the quarter-deck; but Krame, trusting that the Snotty Walloper would be unobservant on this occasion, had sent a messenger for’ard the previous evening to tell the Physical Training Instructor that the midshipmen would not require him in the morning. Therefore, when he turned out of his hammock, John went immediately to his chest, took off his pyjamas, wrapped a towel round his middle, and pattered barefoot down to the bathroom.
Here the senior midshipmen, who had already secured the shallow hip-baths, were sliding them over the tiled floor towards the cold water tap, disputing with vigour as to whose servants had brought the cans of hot water, shouting for soap, and calling down curses upon the heads of those who had presumably stolen their sponges.
“Damn that marine,” Ollenor’s lazy voice was saying, “he has taken my soap again. I hid it in the corner of this locker yesterday.... Shouldn’t mind so much if he ever looked as if he used it.”