‘I’d like to know wot ’appened,’ said the voice out of the darkness. ‘Struck a mine likely. When I come into submarines, my old woman she sez to me——’
‘Stow it,’ growled the Seaman Gunner. ‘Only the other day, ’e sez, “’Bout time,” ’e sez, “you went up for Leading Seaman. I want to see you gettin’ a ’ead. I’ll ’elp you through,” ’e sez.’
‘Wot I think,’ said the Stoker, ‘is, strike me pink. If I don’t pulverise the first ruddy ’Un I meets, Gawd strike me pink.’
‘Pipe down,’ shrilled the bos’n’s mate.
* * * * *
Private Boon was busy. He stood in his shirt-sleeves in the midst of a chaos of his own making.
Outside the cabin was a sea-chest of generous proportions, and in the bunk he had placed a tin uniform case, a helmet case, and divers bags and portmanteaux.
He was a careful packer, but his methods were unique. He liked to see things round him, and after the manner of an inquisitive terrier, he began to strip the drawers of their contents and strew garments high and low. The table, the chairs, and the bunk was soon piled high, and when the last drawer gaped void and empty he surveyed his handiwork with the eye of a connoisseur.
But he showed himself a past master of the art when he began packing the uniforms in the tin case. Every article was carefully shaken, brushed and folded, and reverently placed in its appointed spot. This portion of his labours completed, he dealt with the sea-chest, and by that time the collection round the cabin had materially decreased.
Having finished the clothes at last, he turned to the more personal objects, scrutinising each one before finally disposing of it.