"Beagles," said Alwyn. "Hadn't much time for a dog of my own. We ran a pack of beagles at Dartmouth. Ripping sport."
"Were you at Dartmouth then?" asked Miss Vivian. "At the College?"
Burgoyne nodded.
"Then you were in the navy?"
"Yes," replied the Third Officer. "In the pukka Royal Navy. I came out some months ago, worse luck. But," he added, loyal to his present employers, "this line isn't half-bad—rather decent, in fact."
Miss Vivian made no audible comment. Burgoyne had apparently failed to arouse a sympathetic interest in his case. He felt himself wondering whether she would jump to the conclusion that he was a rotter who had been ignominiously court-martialled and dismissed the Service. But, before he could enlarge upon that particular point, Hilda steered the conversation into other channels until Phil Branscombe's arrival on the bridge brought Burgoyne's trick to a close.
"My relief," announced Alwyn.
Hilda made no attempt to leave the bridge. Branscombe smiled.
"I'm off duty," persisted the Third Officer. "Would you care to see our wireless cabin? It's a perfectly priceless stunt, and Mostyn, our budding Marconi, is quite harmless while under observation."
"Thanks," replied the girl calmly. "Another day perhaps; when it's not so fine. I'll stay here a little longer; I am interested to know what Mr. Branscombe did in the Great War."