John waited his turn, bathed, dressed, and went into the Gunroom for breakfast. The senior midshipmen seemed to be in good humour, the sun was shining, the coffee was hot, and John, in obedience to one of those moods of his of which it was always difficult to discover the cause, was a thousand times more cheerful than he had been on the previous night. When Prayers and Divisions were over, the Chaplain, who was also a naval instructor, came into the Gunroom to conduct School. John learned much of him before his arrival. He had hoped that the Chaplain would be a scholar, a little precious, it might be, but possessed of an ununiformed mind, more pliant than routine, simpler than discipline. He had met one Chaplain of such a kind, and had been grateful for the relief that his contrast afforded. But this man, it seemed, was above all a Wardroom officer. Ollenor summed him up: “He is always trying to bowl you out,” he said. Only Reedham, who had a good word to say for everybody, spoke in his defence. “I dare say he means well. We don’t give him much chance. We’re not exactly Padre’s blue-eyed boys, are we?”
John saw at once that the Padre, when he entered, looked round him in expectation of hostility.
“There you are,” said Hambling, in an aside that was intentionally audible, “he hasn’t even the decency to knock.”
“Will you young gentlemen please keep silence when School has begun?” said the Padre. He looked round him. “No duster, no chalk; blackboard not in position. Who is the Senior Midshipman?”
“I am, sir,” said Krame.
“Then you will in future see that the Gunroom is properly rigged for School before I come in.”
“That will be your job, Cunwell,” said Krame abruptly.
The Padre continued in his even tone. “And you will give your instructions at a proper time, please, and not interrupt me when I am speaking.”
By this time the Gunroom, which, in the manner of Gunrooms, resented nothing so much as cold superiority, was determinedly hostile. If the Padre had ever hoped to win the midshipmen he had set about his task wrongly, and had definitely failed. Of all soil the Gunroom is to a chaplain the most stubborn. Few attempt to cultivate it; fewer succeed in such an attempt.
The navigation lecture became a mere occupation of time, the teacher being as mechanical as the pupils. When he talked, they let him talk, asking no questions. When he drew on the board, they watched him, for he had a habit of turning quickly to discover the direction of their eyes. For this amount of attention, because it was a part of discipline, he made a rigid demand, but so long as their answers to his questions were not flagrantly irrelevant, he seemed to care not at all for the direction of their minds. His manner was a strange contrast to that of the masters at Dartmouth. And here—from the pupils’ point of view—there were no marks to be won, there was no competition, no incentive but the fear of the examinations for the rank of lieutenant, which were yet comfortably far off.