‘Wake up, young feller,’ said Raymond. ‘Don’t you want any breakfast?’
The ‘Sub.’ sat up and rubbed his eyes.
‘Oh, Lord!’ he groaned. ‘Why can’t you leave a chap alone?’
‘Come on now; it’s good for children, invalids, and the aged. Shake a leg and let’s get that table out.’
Seagrave staggered over to the folding basin.
‘As usual,’ he grumbled, ‘no bally water now, and I can’t see out of my eyes till I’ve had a wash.’
‘My goodness, you do look a picture of a promising young officer,’ grinned Raymond, ‘and let me tell you, you wash far too often. None of the really classy people in submarines ever wash. When I was up the Marmora I didn’t wash for a month.’
‘Nor since, either, I should imagine,’ retorted Seagrave.
‘This flippancy in one of tender years is very galling. You don’t follow my august example. Look at Boyd, for instance. Gets out of his bunk as if he were going to be Queen of the May.’
Between them they pushed in the lower bunk and hauled out a table flap, on which the meal was laid by the cook, who bore in the eggs and sausages with the air of one who has achieved a culinary triumph.