Ten minutes later there came a knock at the door. 'Did ye send for Stoker Walley, surr?' inquired a voice.
'Yes,' said the padre wearily. 'Come inside, Walley.'
The stoker, a burly fellow six feet tall, and broad in proportion, removed his cap, entered gingerly, and stood strictly to attention. He was unused to being invited into officers' cabins.
'Did you write this letter to your wife, Walley? the chaplain asked, picking up the offending missive.
'Oi did, surr,' said the man, not the least abashed.
'Don't you know that the censorship regulations forbid you to say anything about the movements of ships or what they're doing?'
'Oi do, surr. But what Oi've put in me letter isn't what's been happenin', surr.' He was perfectly correct in his statement, for what he had written was nothing but the wildest fiction.
The padre smiled. 'No,' he remarked, turning round in his chair and looking up at him, 'I dare say it isn't true. But doesn't it strike you, Walley, that you're doing a very wrong thing in writing like this? The letter's a falsehood from beginning to end.'
'Oi didn't mean no harm, surr,' the stoker protested, rather puzzled.
'No, perhaps not. Have you ever heard of the Defence of the Realm Act?'