"You know old Fletcher—the stoker of my boat; he's frightfully miserable; he's sitting down in his mess looking awful; he's just heard that his last son's been killed; I wish we could do something for him. The letter must have come when I brought off the postman."
"How about a drink?" asked the Sub, scratching his head. "I am sorry."
"Who's that?" asked Uncle Podger; "that old chap with the gold specs?"
The Orphan nodded.
"Fancy having to stick it out—all the misery of it—in a mess deck, with hundreds of chaps cursing and joking all round you," the Sub said. "I don't see what we can do to help him."
"You've got a cabin," Uncle Podger suggested. "Get him down in it; shut him in for an hour. What he wants most is to be alone."
"Right oh!" said the Sub, springing to his feet. "I've got the first watch; he can stay there till 'pipe down';" and he sent Barnes, the purple-faced marine, to find Fletcher and tell him that the Sub-lieutenant wanted him at once in his cabin.
The Sub, swinging his mighty shoulders, stalked down to his cabin, and presently there was a knock outside, and Fletcher peered in. "Yes, sir?"
"I've just heard, Fletcher," the Sub said, holding out his hand. "We are all very sorry; you'd like to be by yourself for a while. Stay here till 'pipe down'; no one shall come near you."
He pushed the old man down in the chair, drew the door across, and went into the gun-room.