"Luncheon bell, I s'pose," replied I. "Come along."
We found our way down to the huge dining saloon, which was furnished with thirty separate tables. Looking for a place where we could lunch together, we saw two seats next the padre, whose conversation in the Transport Office had entertained us. We picked a route through the other tables towards him.
"Are these two seats reserved, sir?" I asked.
Padre Monty turned a lean face towards Doe and me, and looked us up and down.
"Yes," he said. "Reserved for you."
I smiled at so flattering a way of putting it, and, sitting down, mumbled: "Thanks awfully."
There were two other people already at the table. One was a long and languid young subaltern, named Jimmy Doon, who declared that he had lost his draft of men (about eighty of them) and felt much happier without them. He thought they were perhaps on another boat.
"Are they officially on board the Rangoon?" asked Padre Monty.
"Officially they are," sighed Jimmy Doon, "but that's all. However, I expect it's enough."
"Well, your draft is better off than I am," said Monty. "It at least exists officially, whereas I'm missing. I haven't officially arrived at Devonport. The War Office will probably spend months and reams of paper (which is getting scarce) in looking for me. But I don't suppose it matters."