"Can't go no farther this way, sir," announced a marine, recognizing the sub, and knowing that he was new to the ship. "Bulkhead doors are shut. There's a way round past the issue-room, sir, down this 'ere ladder."
The "issue-room" was open. An electric lamp illuminated the irregular-shaped space, which on one side was bounded by the convex base of the after turret, a 6-inch wall of hard steel.
Sefton could hear voices raised in loud and vehement argument: two assistant ship's stewards were discussing the respective merits of music-hall favourites.
A third voice joined in the discussion--that of one of the ship's boys.
"'Taint neither the one or t'other," he began. "I was a-saying----"
"Then don't say it, but get on with your job," interrupted the first speaker. "Those casks look a regular disgrace. You haven't polished the brasswork for more'n three days, and it's captain's rounds to-morrow."
The next instant came a regular avalanche of flour-sacks, casks, copper measures, and other paraphernalia pertaining to the ship's steward's department. Across the raised coaming of the doorway tripped the three occupants of the issue-room, landing in a struggling, confused heap at Sefton's feet.
From a distance of nearly nine miles an 11-inch shell had hit the Warrior abreast of the after turret. It was some little time before it was realized that the damage was slight.
The first to pick himself up was the ship's steward's boy.
"Guess you don't want me to carry on with that there polishing job," he remarked nonchalantly, as he heaved the winded petty officer to his feet and indicated the debris of the brass-bound casks.