Driss’s face was pale, his Irish eyes dangerous. Tintern leaned sideways in his seat and took Krame by the arm.
“Dry up, you fool!” he said in an undertone, and turned back to the piano. He had tact, moreover.
“O Gawd, our ’elp in ages pa-ha-hast....” Before the chorus was ended Driss had secured his locker and quietly fallen in again.
The next Evolution was known alternatively by two names—one, “The Angostura Hunt”; the other, which was sometimes attached in other Gunrooms to an Evolution slightly different, “Creeping for Jesus.” John was the first taken. Thrust on his knees near the serving slab, he was blindfolded with two handkerchiefs. He could hear the senior midshipmen’s voices. “Lay it here.... No, not under the table. We can’t get at him under the table.... There, that will do. Replace the bitters, Elstone.”
“Can you see?” asked Krame.
“No.”
“Can you smell?”
“Yes.”
“Can you feel?”