'Ye haven't seen me wife, surr,' said the stoker. 'She likes a bit of excitement now and then.'
The chaplain got rather annoyed. 'I dare say she does,' he answered; 'but that is no excuse for your sending her a letter which is nothing but a pack of lies. Now look here, Walley,' he added very sternly, 'if I took this matter forward you would find yourself in serious trouble. I don't want that to happen, though, so I'll tear it up; but you must promise me faithfully you'll never write a letter like this again. Will you promise?'
'Oi will, surr,' said the man, looking genuinely frightened. 'Thankin' ye very much all the same, surr.'
The censor tore the letter into minute fragments and dropped it into the waste-paper basket. 'There,' he said, 'that's the last you'll hear of it, Walley; but don't let it occur again. You can keep the envelope, and if you're quick you'll just have time to write another letter before the mail leaves. No horrors this time, mind. Tell your wife you're well and happy, and all that sort of thing. D'you understand?'
'Oi do, surr,' the stoker replied sheepishly, taking the envelope. 'Thank ye, surr.' He left the cabin.
'Heigho!' yawned the padre, resuming his unwelcome occupation; 'I've been in the service for seven years, but it seems I don't understand the men yet. I wonder if I ever shall!' He often asks himself the same question.
III.
'I'm fed up wi' this 'ere war!' exclaimed Pincher Martin, flinging away the fag-end of a cigarette with a petulant gesture. 'It's bin goin' on fur over four bloomin' months, an' we ain't see'd a ruddy thing yet!'
'Th' way some o' you blokes talks makes me fair sick,' Able Seaman Billings retorted. 'S'pose yer 'ad see'd somethin', as yer calls it, yer might 'ave lost th' number o' yer mess. W'y carn't yer be content wi' wot ye've got? That's wot I wants ter know.'
Pincher snorted. 'Content wi' wot I've got!' he jeered. ''Ow kin I be? I reckons I wants ter fight, same as other blokes.'