* * * * *
Private Boon, R.M.L.I., knocked at his master’s door.
‘Mr Blake, sir. ’Alf-past seven. Your bath’s ready, sir.’
The sleeper awoke, yawned, and threw one pyjama-clad leg over the bunk board.
‘All right. I’ll be out in a minute,’ he grunted.
The private withdrew and Blake turned over and looked at his watch.
‘Um,’ he groaned. ‘Better hurry up, I suppose, or some one will pinch my bath.’
As he slipped on a dressing-gown, a photograph on the table caught his eye.
‘Wonder if “159” has got back yet,’ he mused, as he made his way down the corridor. ‘Ought to be in by now,’ and he disappeared into the bathroom, where sounds of splashing and ‘Miserere’ in a deep bass shortly issued.
On his return he found the private of Marines busy in his room.