I think that, after this, we dropped into silence, and watched the quay emptying itself of men, and the Rangoon’s decks becoming more and more crowded, as the day declined.  The Embarkation was practically complete.  The Devonport Staff Officers wished us “a good voyage,” and went home to their teas in Plymouth.  And, just before dinner, the gangway was hauled on to the quay.  This was the final act, for, though the ship was not yet moving, we had broken communication with England.

Sec.2

At dinner, it being the first night afloat, the champagne corks began to pop, and the conversation to grow noisier and noisier.  By the time the nutcrackers were busy, the more riotous subalterns had reached that state of merriness, in which they found every distant pop of a cork the excuse for a fresh cheer and cries of “Take cover!”

Major Hardy, too, was beaming.  He had sipped the best part of three bottles of champagne, and was feeling himself, multiplied by three.  He assured Monty that the padres had been the most magnificent people of the war.  He told three times the story of one who had died going over the top with his men.  That padre was a man.  The men would have followed him anywhere.  For he was a man every inch of him.  But, of course, the victim and hero of the war, said Major Hardy, looking at Doe, myself, and the weary Jimmy Doon, was the junior subaltern.  Everybody was prepared to take off his hat to the junior subaltern.  He had died in greater numbers than any other rank.  He had only just left school, and yet he had led his men from in front.  The Major, if he had fifty hats, would take them all off to the junior subaltern.  His heart beat at one with the heart of the junior subaltern.  And, steward, confound it, where was the drink-steward?  There would be the most awful bloody row, if he weren’t looked after properly.

Dinner over, the riotous juniors rushed upstairs to the Officers’ Lounge, a large room with a bar at one end, and a piano at the other.  Some congregated near the bar to order liqueurs, while others surrounded the piano to roar rag-time choruses that one of their number was playing.  This artist had a whole manual of rag-time tunes, and seemed to have begun at Number One and decided to work through the collection.  Each air was caught up and sung with more enthusiasm than the last.  And see, there was Major Hardy, leaning over the pianist that he might read the words through his monocle, and singing with the best of them:  “Everybody’s doing it—­doing it—­doing it,” and “Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo.”

The Spirit of Riot was aboard to-night.  The wines of Heidsieck and Veuve Pommery glowed in the cheeks of the subalterns.  It was the last night in an English harbour, and what ho! for a rag.  It was the first night afloat, and what ho! for a rough-house.  And there was Elation in the air at the sight of Britain embarking for the Dardanelles to teach the Turk what the Empire meant.  So shout, my lads.  “Hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo, hitchy-koo.”