There came a time when I was sure in my mind that I would get that ship—­a time when there was no longer zest in praying for it; and there entered into my praying phrases of gratitude instead of request.  There came also a time when I confided this assurance to my closest friend, to whom it was all moonshine.  He laughed and poked fun at the idea.  It became a barrack-room joke and I was hurt and chagrined.

The eventful morning arrived.  Those for embarkation were called out for parade in full marching order, and the roll was called.  The universe seemed to hang in the balance that morning.  Finally the moment arrived.  My name was called.  I took one pace to the front, ported my arms and awaited the verdict.  My name and company were called, and this assignment:  “To Her Majesty’s ship Condor!”

My comrades giggled and were sharply rebuked:  I gave vent to an inarticulate guttural sound and was also rebuked.  After parade I went to my barrack-room, changed my uniform, and disappeared to escape ridicule.

“What cheer, Condor?” were the first words that greeted me at reveille next morning, and my room-mates kept it up.  Sometimes the ridicule worked overtime.  Often I was on the edge of a wild outburst of passion and resentment, but I mastered these things and went on with my duties.  At eleven o’clock in the forenoon of the day following my assignment, we “mustered kits.”  This is the ordinary pre-embarkation inspection.  After inspection we packed our kits and were stood to attention.  Several corrections were made in the instructions of the previous day.  My heart almost stopped beating when my name was called a second time.

“A mistake was made——­”

The officer got no farther.

“I knew it, begorra!” I exclaimed, with flushed face and beating heart.

The officer came close to me, looked straight into my face, and said,
“I have a good mind to put you in the guard room.”

I stood still, motionless, silent.

“A mistake was made yesterday,” he continued, “in appointing you to the Condor.  You are to go, instead, with a detachment to the Alexandra, flagship of the Mediterranean Squadron.”

Parade was dismissed.  I went to the officer, saluted him, and begged the privilege of an explanation.  In a few words I told him my story and of the hope of my life, and asked him to forgive me for the interruption.  He looked astonished and replied very quietly, “I am glad you told me, Irvine.  I shall be interested in your future.”

On the way to the barrack-room, the spirit of exuberant merriment took possession of me.  I wanted to do something ludicrous or desperate.  I threw my pack into a corner, quickly divested myself of my tunic, rolled up my shirt sleeves, and struck the table such a blow with my clinched fist as to make the dishes jump off.  Everybody looked around.  My face must have been a picture of facial latitude.