“But really, Charley, you don’t look fit to rejoin,” said Kate.  “Your cheeks are dreadfully thin, and your voice is nearly gone.”

“Well, of course, I’m dead tired; feel all to pieces, in fact.  But all I want is sleep.”

“And a medical certificate,” put in Barracombe.  “I’ve known a fellow get two months’ leave for what he called a strained heart.  Strained it to some purpose, for he got married before his leave was up.  We’ll get you a certificate—­a doctor’s, not a parson’s.”

“I don’t mind if you do, after I’ve rejoined; but I must show up without fail at nine a.m.  I’m later than I meant to be.  Got snowed up at St. John’s.”

“You didn’t come straight from Toronto, then!”

“No.  Didn’t care to risk it.  Besides, it would have meant eighteen hours in the air at a stretch.  I don’t think Roddy and I could have stood that.  I took St. John’s—­in Newfoundland, Kate—­on the way.”

“But I thought Newfoundland was near the North Pole.”

“A common mistake.  St. John’s is considerably southward of our latitude.  But they’ve had a cold snap there lately, and we came down in a snowdrift and had to be dug out.  We had an easy flight across the Atlantic; the engine has behaved splendidly all through, thanks to Roddy.  But I’m glad to be home; by Jove, I am!”

This conversation passed as they walked up to the house.  Mrs. Smith had been wakened by the noise of the engine, and stood just within the door to welcome her son.  She, too, was struck by his haggard appearance, and declared she must send for the doctor.

“Why, Mother, you’re not going to coddle me at my age,” he said.  “You ought to be in bed.  Off you go:  I shall be all right in the morning.  I shall have something to tell you then.  Breakfast at eight sharp, by the way; or I shan’t get to Portsmouth in time.”

“Very well, my dear.  Simmons is up, keeping some food warm for you.  I will tell him.  Goodnight.”

“I’ve such loads to tell you,” said Smith, when she had gone; “but I’m afraid it must wait.  By the way, Kate, I suppose nothing of importance has come for me?”

“A few letters, mostly from the people you disappointed, I suspect.  I’ll fetch them.”

When she returned, Smith immediately noticed a long official envelope in the bundle.  He tore it open.

“Great Scott!” he cried.  “An order to rejoin on Wednesday without fail.  That’s a nasty whack.”

“Any explanation?” asked Barracombe.

“Not a word.  Some sudden whimsy of the admiral’s, I suppose.  Have you got yesterday’s paper, Kate?”

“I remember now,” cried Kate.  “How silly of me to forget it!  The Implacable broke down, and your ship was ordered to replace her.”

“Just my luck!” exclaimed Smith gloomily.  “Last time I was late the ship was going shooting.  Now I shall miss her altogether when she’s at manoeuvres.  Captain Bolitho will put me down as a hopeless rotter.”