Of Mautby itself there is little to be said. It is the terminus of a branch line from which two trains depart and two arrive every weekday—unless the line is blocked by snow. On Sundays communication by rail ceases. There are two very indifferent inns, no cinema, and hardly any amusements for the men of His Majesty’s ships who happen to be lying in Junk Harbour.
It was three miles from this back-of-beyond town and in the centre of Junk Harbour outer roadstead that Mr. Midshipman Raxworthy was to spend his Christmas!
II
“Fall in, liberty men!”
The hoarse order, followed by the shrill trill of the bo’sun’s mate’s pipes brought the hands of the watch detailed for leave tumbling up pell-mell through the hatchways. At the double they ran aft to form up in two ranks upon the quarter-deck, where they stood shivering in the chilly on-shore wind in spite of great-coats, jerseys, and mufflers.
“Liberty men—‘shun!”
The ranks stiffened, each man staring fixedly into space while the inspecting officer, accompanied by a midshipman and the master-at-arms, passed slowly up and down, keenly on the look-out for any glaring departure from regulations in the men’s “rig”.
“Carry on!”
The ranks broke, each man, holding his suitcase and making sure that his liberty ticket and travelling warrant were still in his possession, making for one of two pinnaces lying alongside.
In a few moments both boats were filled to their utmost capacity, while the duty steam-boat, with Midshipman Raxworthy in charge, backed and then went slowly ahead preparatory to taking the two liberty boats in tow.