'Request's signed by the torpedo lootenant, sir,' the M.A.A. explained; for Weatherley, being a torpedo gunner's mate by calling, was one of Hatherley's myrmidons.
'Why d'you want this extension?' the commander asked, playing with a pencil.
'Urgent private affairs, sir.'
'Yes, quite so. But what are the private affairs, and why are they urgent? Week-end leave expires at nine o'clock on Monday, you know.'
'I can't very well say, sir,' the petty officer said, glancing at the crowd of ship's corporals round the table. 'My reasons are rather private, sir.'
'Oh, I see. Can you tell me?'
'Yes, sir.'
The commander left the table, beckoned the man to follow him, and walked aft out of earshot of every one else. For quite a minute they talked together, and then the officer nodded, and Weatherley, with a pleased grin, saluted and marched off.
'Request granted, master-at-arms,' the commander observed, coming back to the table. 'Next man.'
The M.A.A. made a note in his book. 'Able Seaman Billings!' he called.