The ship was rolling considerably. At one moment the starboard shrouds were almost perpendicular, at another they inclined at such an angle that Greenwood was almost lying on his face at full length upon a gigantic wire net. Clouds of eddying, pungent smoke enveloped him, for the vessel had a following wind. The keen blast seemed to cut him like a knife in spite of his bulky, additional clothing.
The young officer descended rapidly. He was anxious to gain the deck for two reasons. He wanted to warm himself by the wardroom fire; he was also aware that a destroyer had a few hours previously sent on board a batch of mails—the first for nearly a fortnight. After thirteen days of patrol work without being in touch with land, the prospect of receiving letters from home was one that outweighed all others, unless, perhaps—harrowing thought!—the mail-bag was a blank so far as Eric was concerned.
"Hello, old bird! A trifle nippy up in your little perch!" exclaimed a voice as Greenwood stepped over the threshold of the wardroom door.
The speaker was a tall, broad-shouldered sub-lieutenant, Ronald Tressidar by name. Between these two there existed a friendship that was almost of lifelong duration, for their respective homes were in the same Devonshire town. Of recent years they had seen little of each other. Their careers were set upon totally different lines till by a pure coincidence they found themselves appointed to H.M.S. "Pompey."
"Beastly cold," agreed Greenwood as he made his way to the letter-rack. Thanks be! There was a goodly sheaf of envelopes bearing his name. Eagerly the A.P. possessed himself of his correspondence and sought a chair in the sadly depleted wardroom, for upon the outbreak of hostilities the cosy atmosphere of the place had given way to a state of almost Spartan simplicity.
Silence reigned. The rest of the officers off duty were literally devouring their greetings from home or else were burying their heads between the pages of newspapers that were at least three days old.
In the warm glow, with his mind fully occupied with thoughts of home and distant friends, Greenwood forgot completely the rigorous period of "Action Stations" in the fore-top. But all things come to an end. Reluctantly the A.P. folded his letters and placed them in his pocket. As he did so he caught Tressidar's eye.
"Anything startling?" asked the sub., taking a vacant place on the lounge within a couple of feet of Greenwood's chair.
"Heaps," replied the A.P. "For one thing, an aeroplane came down on the pater's greenhouse. No one hurt. I can imagine the governor cutting up rough about it. He never could see the humorous side of anything. The mater is still knitting for the troops. I pity the poor fellows who get hold of any of the gear she turns out. Once upon a time in the dire days of my youth she knitted me a pair of socks. I didn't forget to chip her about them, too."
"She makes awfully decent cakes," remarked Tressidar reminiscently.