And then the crowd of subalterns, worked up by the licence allowed it, like a horse excited by a head-free gallop, returns in force to the lounge.  The pianist strikes up “The Old Folks at Home.”  A Scotsman breaks in with the proclamation that It’s oh! but he’s longing for his ain folk; Though he’s far across the sea, Yet his heart will ever be Away in dear old Scotland with his ain folk.  And an Irishman, feeling that there’s too much of Scotland about these songs, begins to publish the attractions of the hills of Donegal: 

“And, please God, if He so wills,
Soon I’ll see my Irish hills,
The hills of Donegal, so dear to me.”

Then the piano rings out with ancient dance-tunes, and Harry Fenwick, prince of dancers, seizes Edgar Doe round the waist, and, clasping the slim youth to him, leads the boy (who’s as graceful as a girl and as sinuous as a serpent) through the voluptuous movements of the latest dance.  Up and down go their outstretched arms like a pump handle, but oh! so sweetly; round and round with eyes half-closed swirl their bodies; and, just as you think they are going round again, they surprise you by teasingly stepping out the music in a straight line across the lounge; and, when you least expect it, they are retracing dainty steps along the same straight line—­always seductive, tantalising, enticing.

But stop the dance.  Here arrives Major Hardy to a din of welcome.  And under his instructions they burn the champagne corks, and therewith decorate their faces.  One is ornamented with a pointed beard and the devil’s horns, and turned into Mephistopheles.  One is given an unshaven chin, and made to represent Moses Ikeystein.  Another is a White-eyed Kaffir.  And don’t think Major Hardy omits himself.  Not he.  He is Hindenburg.

Jimmy Doon, I regret to say, is undoubtedly drunk.  He is walking about seeking someone to fight.  To my discomfiture he approaches me as his best friend, and therefore the one most likely to fight him.

“Will you fight?” says he.  “There’s a decent shap.”

I try with a sickly laugh to appear at my ease, and answer:  “No, damned if I will,” blushing to the roots of my hair, and wishing the painful person would go away.

“And you call yourself a Christian!” retorts Jimmy; which provokes the rest of the subalterns to hold a court-martial on James Doon for being tight.  And they court-martial Fishy Fielding, an ugly fellow, whose eyes are like a cod’s.  What for, you seek to know.  Well, they court-martial him because of his face.  Both culprits are found guilty.

At 1 a.m.  Jimmy staggers to his cabin to rest a swimming head.  But he doesn’t go to sleep till he has summoned his steward, and instructed him to call him early in the morning—­call him early—­call him early, for he’s to be Queen of the May.

Sec.4

The riot had been still young when Doe entered the lounge from the deck, and, walking up to me, said: