The authorities realised that life in small ships was sometimes apt to breed staleness; so, though the Mariner and her flotilla were often at sea, and while in harbour were always ready to sail at short notice, officers and men were allowed ashore in the afternoons whenever they could be spared. They were always liable to instant recall, of course, and never got very far from their ships; but this did not prevent them from playing games or otherwise amusing themselves. It did them all the good in the world, and kept them fit and contented.
On board, their amusements were simple. They all read a great deal, and their expenditure on 'sevenpennies,' cheap books at one shilling, and magazines must have put considerable profit into the pockets of the publishers who catered for their needs, notwithstanding the enhanced price of paper and the shortage of labour. One thing all agreed upon was their debt of gratitude to Jack London. They read his books not once, but a dozen times; and, prolific writer though he is, they wished he were more prolific, for there was a snap and a liveliness about his work which appealed to them. In the evenings in harbour the officers either read, argued, listened to the gramophone, played with the doctor's Meccano set, or indulged in ping-pong. It is true that the wardroom of a destroyer is not an ideal place for this game. The table was small; collisions with hanging lamps, furniture, and Harry Smith with his arms full of newly cleaned glasses and cutlery were frequent and sometimes painful; while the balls had an unhappy knack of losing themselves under settees and cupboards. But in spite of these disadvantages the players became expert.
Farther forward the men also contrived to keep themselves happy. They had their band—consisting of a drum, a couple of concertinas, many mouth-organs, and a flute—which disported itself on deck on fine evenings. They also sang loudly and sentimentally; while one versatile person imitated Mr Charles Chaplin, bowler hat, moustache, baggy trousers, and all. They had their racing crews for the whaler and the dinghy, and in the dog-watches were not slow in challenging other destroyers to races. Sometimes they won and sometimes they did not; but the contests always gave the onlookers the opportunity of indulging in ribald and strident remarks at other people's expense.
Amongst the ship's company were a certain number of men who had done their time in the navy, had retired into civil life after their various periods of service, and had either volunteered or been recalled on the outbreak of war. They were all excellent men, just as good as any of their shipmates, while what little rustiness there was about them wore off within a month of their joining the ship. Their experiences and occupations ashore had been varied, to say the least of it.
'Dogo' Pearson, the milkman, has appeared before; but besides him there was an ex-member of the Liverpool police, an Edinburgh fireman, a cattle-puncher from Arizona, and a man who had served as a steward-valet on board a yacht belonging to some rich potentate in the Argentine. Then there was David MacLeod, who hailed from Stornoway; Donald MacIver, from the Orkneys; and Roderick Mackay, from Lerwick. They were all fishermen and members of the Royal Naval Reserve, and naturally were good seamen. Moreover, Wooten found them most useful as reliable weather prophets.
'Well,' he would say to MacLeod on the bridge at sea, 'what d'you make of the weather?'
The Scotsman would look up at the sky and note the direction and force of the wind. 'Sur,' he would answer slowly, 'we'll ha'e a wee bit blaw afore the mornin'.'
'Blow!' Wooten would echo, rather surprised. 'Why d'you say that? The glass is high, and there's a fine enough sky; isn't there?'
MacLeod would wag his head wisely. 'I dinna ken why,' he would say. 'The wund'll ha'e gone roond tae the north-east, an'll start blawin' fresh afore the mornin'.'
And blow it invariably did, precisely from the quarter MacLeod had mentioned.