Major Hardy was equal to any of them.  He was the Master of the Revels.  He had a big space cleared at one end of the lounge, and organised a Rugby scrum.  He arranged the sides, interlocked the subalterns in the three-two-three formation, forced their heads down like a master coaching boys, and, when he had given the word “Shove like hell,” ran round to the back of the scrum, got into it with his head well down, and pushed to such purpose that the whole of the opposite side was rushed off its feet, and the scrum sent hurtling across the lounge.  A few chairs were broken, as the scrimmagers swept like an avalanche over the room.  Major Hardy was hot with success.  “A walk over!  Absolutely ran them off their feet!  Come and shove for them, you slackers,” he shouted to those, who so far had only looked on and laughed.  A score of fellows rushed to add their weight to the defeated side, and another score to swell the pack of the victors.  “That’s the style,” cried the Major.  “There are only about sixty of us in this scrum.  Pack well down, boys.  Not more than twenty in the front row.  Ball’s in!  Shove like blazes!” Into it he got himself, and shoved—­shoved till the scrum was rolled back across the lounge; shoved till the side, which was being run off its feet, broke up in laughter, and was at once knocked down like ninepins by the rush of the winning forwards; shoved till his own crowd fell over the prostrate forms of their victims, and collapsed into a heap of humanity on to the floor.

Wiping his brow and whistling, he organised musical chairs; and, after musical chairs, cock-fighting.  Already he was limping on one knee, and his left eye was red and swollen.  But he was enjoying himself so much that his enjoyment was infectious.  To see him was to feel that Life was a riotous adventure, and this planet of ours the liveliest of lively worlds.  And really, in spite of all, I’m not sure that it isn’t.

Doe and I with our hands in our pockets had contented ourselves with being onlookers.  The high spirits of Major Hardy’s disorderly mob were radiating too much like electric waves through the room for us not to be caught by an artificial spell of happiness.  But neither of us felt rowdy to-night.  Monty, too, as he stood between us, looked on and moralised.

“It’s three parts Wine and seven parts Youth,” he ruled (he was always giving a ruling on something), “so I’m three parts shocked and seven parts braced.  But I say, Doe, we’re a race to rejoice in.  Look at these officers.  Aren’t they a bonny crowd?  The horrible, pink Huns, with their round heads, cropped hair, and large necks, may have officers better versed in the drill-book.  But no army in the world is officered by such a lot of fresh sportsmen as ours.  Come on deck.”

When we got out into the warm air of a July evening, we found that the quay, which before dinner had been alongside the ship, was floating away from our port-quarter.  Clearer thinking showed us that it was the ship which was veering round, and not the shore.  We were really moving.  The Rangoon was off for the Dardanelles.  There was no crowd to cheer us and wave white handkerchiefs; nothing but a silent, deserted dockyard—­because of that policeman at the gate.  It was only as we crept past a great cruiser, whose rails were crowded with Jack Tars, that cheers and banter greeted us.