A small crowd of sick-berth attendants were in waiting when the motor-cars arrived. The worst cases were taken into the building on stretchers. Amongst these were Sub-Lieutenant Aubyn, clad in cloth trousers and sweater, and Stoker O'Milligan decked in borrowed plumage—to wit, a naval officer's great-coat. Both men were still unconscious.
Consequently it was excusable that the sick-bay staff made a slight mistake. O'Milligan, after his leg was properly set in splints, was put to bed in the officer's ward, while Terence was dumped into the only vacant cot in one of the men's wards.
He was a puzzle to the sick-berth attendants. They knew that the one officer mentioned in the telegram had arrived. They could find no mark of identification on the clothing of the supposed seaman. Being particularly busy they let the matter of identification slide, thinking that on the patient's return to consciousness he would be able to give the necessary information as to his name and rating.
When the doctor went his rounds he gave directions for a sleeping draught to be administered to the patient as soon as he regained his senses.
Ten minutes after the medico's departure Terence opened his eyes. Instantly the alert attendant pounced down, and, without giving the patient a chance to speak, made him swallow the draught. Consequently it was not until six o'clock in the evening that the sub. awoke, feeling little the worse for his prolonged rest.
He sat up and looked round the room. His surroundings were strangely unfamiliar. The very bareness of the place had a lower-deck atmosphere.
He beckoned to the sick-bay attendant.
"What's up now, mate?" asked that worthy. "Feeling better?"
Somewhat taken aback by the familiarity of the man, Terence asked where he was, and was informed that he was in "B" block of Shotley Sick-Quarters.
"What's your name and rating, chum?" asked the man, producing a book and fingering a stump of indelible pencil.