Tickle departed.
III.
The marine postman, who should have been off at eight o'clock, was delayed, and did not come on board with the mails and Sunday papers for the ship's company until nearly noon. But when he did finally turn up he was nearly carried off his feet by the rush of men.
''Ere, posty!' shouted some one, 'got my Dispatch?'
'Wot abart my Lloyd's and People?' roared another man, elbowing his way through the throng.
'Ain't ye got my Reynolds's?' from somebody else.
'Oh, go to 'ell!' retorted the exasperated marine, vainly endeavouring to make his way forward through the crowd with a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder and three bulbous mail-bags on his back. 'Oh, go to 'ell, the 'ole boilin' lot o' you! Orl in good time! 'Aven't none o' you blokes got no patience?' He was annoyed, poor man, and had every right to be, for he had gone breakfastless, and the mail, arriving late, had delayed him many hours.
'Well, tell us th' noos!' some one bellowed above the uproar.
'Noos!' he replied. 'Germany's declared war on Russia, an' all the naval reserves an' pensioners is called out! Wot more d'you want?'
It was quite sufficient; enough, indeed, to reduce a good many of them to a state of excited incoherence. It seemed practically impossible that Great Britain could keep out of the conflict; and, though throughout the ship the general feeling was one of warlike joy, it was tempered here and there by a touch of subdued solemnity. The mail despatched the same evening constituted a 'bloomin' record,' as the long-suffering postman put it, for every officer and man on board had spent the afternoon in writing letters.