"Stop it, you young idiots!" roared Jeffreys, smiting the table with his open hand and calling the senior midshipman by name.
In a minute they were back in their places, flushed and happy, with collars gone, coats torn, and here and there small gashes on their faces, which their nearest chums wiped affectionately with the crumpled table-cloth.
Order once restored, they fell to with redoubled vigour, and sardines disappeared like magic—sardines, tinned butter and biscuits.
"Well, I can't get over that news from home," said Dumpling for about the fourth time since the mail had come aboard.
"Whatever is it, Dumpling?" they all chorused. "Your old cat had kittens?"
"No, you chaps, didn't I tell you? My sister is engaged to the son of a duke. I simply can't get over it."
"Can't you, really! Then try if that will help you," sang out Mellins, and he heaved a sea-boot at Dumpling's head. Dumpling was much too nimble, and it only crashed into the helpless Mess steward, who was doing his best to serve them all, smashed to smithereens a jug which he was carrying, and caught him fair and square on the chest.
"Awfully sorry, Watson," said Mellins apologetically.
"Put Mr. Dunning down for six jugs, Messman," said Jeffreys—"six for sky-larking."
"But I didn't throw it; it wasn't my fault," stammered Dumpling.