Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti—­
  Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti—­

came from the piano.

Harty whirled around.  “And as for you!” He picked up the spare pack and hurled them at the fat piano-player.  “Blast you!  Yes, you—­I said you, didn’t I—­shut up!  It’s petticoats you ought to be wearing.”

The piano-player’s lower lip fell away from his teeth.  His wall eyes opened abnormally.  “Why, what did I do to you?” he gasped.

“Nothing.  You couldn’t do anything to anybody.  You haven’t the gimp.  Shut up.”

Harty faced Baldwin.  “The hell we can’t help it.  The light-ship to South Shoal could be going to her death with all hands, and we’re sitting here and guzzling rum.”

Baldwin was holding his cards up in front of his eyes.  He riffled the close-set edges with a dexterous thumb, took another squint, pursed his lips, said softly—­“M-m—­yes, I’m in,” dropped two white chips onto the little pile in the centre, then, looking up, laughed tolerantly at Harty.

“Rum?  Mine’s rye, Bud, when there’s any choice, but what’s wrong with you to-night?  Sit down.  Maybe you’ve got it right, Bud, but what’s the use of gettin’ highsterics over it?  Maybe some of us could be a lot better than we are, but I don’t know’s any of us ever pretended to be anything great, did we?”

“Great?  I didn’t say anything about great men.  We’re not half men, Baldy—­the light-ship is going with all hands.”

“One card,” Baldwin scaled his discard to the table and stuck the new card in with his others before he answered.  His voice was now less patient.  “Say, Bud, maybe we’re not half men, but don’t rub it in—­don’t.  If anything’s wrong with the light-ship, how’d you know?”

“I know.”

“But how?”

“Wireless.”

“Wireless?” Baldwin was peering at his cards.  Suddenly he looked up.  “Hah—­wireless?  Eheu-u—­” he whistled softly, gently laid his cards face-down on the table.  “You got word, Bud?” He half-turned to the man on his right.  “Do I see you, Bo, did you say?” He picked up his cards.  “Sure I’ll see you—­and two more red lozenges to come along.  But what can we do about it, Bud?”

“There’s the Whist, Baldy.”

“What, her?  Send her to sea to-night?  We couldn’t if we wanted.  She only goes out under orders from the commandant, remember.  And the commandant, he’s on leave, visitin’ his married daughter somewhere over Christmas.”

“And a G.C.M., too, wouldn’t it, Baldwin?” put in the man called Bo, “without orders.”

Harty whirled on Bo.  “Who the hell gave you a rating to butt in on this?  Orders?  To hell with their orders, and to hell with their general court-martials.  Orders, Baldy, when it’s lives to be saved?  Christ, Baldy, you haven’t forgot, have you?  Bowen’s on her.  Bowen, man, and remember she’s going to—­”