“No, but you’ve ocular demonstration of it.”

And he was gone.

When our turn came, the Staff Officer consulted a list of names before him and said: 

“The Rangoon.  She’s at the quay opposite the Great Crane.”

The Rangoon, as we drew near, showed herself to be a splendid liner, painted from funnel to keel the uniform dull-black of a transport.  All over and about this great black thing scurried and swarmed khaki figures, busy in the work of embarkation.  We rushed up the long gangway, and pleaded with the Embarkation Officer for a two-berth cabin to ourselves.  The gentleman damned us most heartily, and said:  “Take No. 54.”  We hurried away to the State Rooms and flung our kit triumphantly on to the bunks of Cabin 54.

It was at this moment that a mysterious occupant of Cabin 55, next door, who had been singing “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” came to the end of his song and roared:  “Steward!”; after which he commenced to whistle “The Death of Nelson.”  We heard the steps of the steward pass along the alley-way and enter 55.

“Yes, sir?” his voice inquired.

But our neighbour was not to be interrupted in his tune.  He whistled it to its last note, and then said: 

“I say, steward, I’m sure you’re not at all a damnable fellow, so I want you to understand early that you’ll get into awful trouble if I’m not looked after properly—­_-what_.  There’ll be the most deplorable row if I’m not looked after properly.”

“Well, I’m hanged!” whispered Doe.  “I’m going to see who the merchant is.”  He disappeared; and was back in ten seconds, muttering, “Good Lord, Rupert, it’s a middle-aged major with a monocle; and its kit’s marked ‘Hardy.’”

And, while we were wondering at such spirits in a major, and in one who was both middle-aged and monocled, two bells sounded from the bows, two more answered like an echo from the boat-deck above, and Major Hardy was heard departing with unbecoming haste down the alley-way.

“What’s that mean?” asked Doe.

“Luncheon bell, I s’pose,” replied I.  “Come along.”

We found our way down to the huge dining saloon, which was furnished with thirty separate tables.  Looking for a place where we could lunch together, we saw two seats next the padre, whose conversation in the Transport Office had entertained us.  We picked a route through the other tables towards him.

“Are these two seats reserved, sir?” I asked.

Padre Monty turned a lean face towards Doe and me, and looked us up and down.

“Yes,” he said.  “Reserved for you.”

I smiled at so flattering a way of putting it, and, sitting down, mumbled:  “Thanks awfully.”

There were two other people already at the table.  One was a long and languid young subaltern, named Jimmy Doon, who declared that he had lost his draft of men (about eighty of them) and felt much happier without them.  He thought they were perhaps on another boat.