Part 20 (1/2)

”What about one of the guests for a song?”

”Yes, yes!” cried several voices. ”Where's Number One? He's our Madame Patti. You ought to hear him sing '_We don't serve bread with one fish-ball!_' It's really worth it. But it takes a lot of port to get him started. How d'you feel about it, Number One?” They spoke with indulgent affection, as a nurse might persuade a bashful child to show off before company.

He of the choleric blue eye was still sitting at the table with one of his hosts. He turned in his chair, smiling grimly.

”What's that about me? I don't want to start sc.r.a.pping in a strange mess, s.n.a.t.c.her, but if you really _are_ looking for trouble----!”

”Don't mind us!” shouted the Indiarubber Man delightedly. ”We'll put up a sc.r.a.p for you in half a jiffy if you feel like a crumpled s.h.i.+rt-front!” He looked round the mess. ”Wait till Flags and the Secretary come in from dinner with the Old Man, and we'll out the gilded Staff. They're good 'uns to sc.r.a.p.”

As he spoke the door opened, and the Flag Lieutenant came in, to be met by a volley of greetings.

”We of the cuddy,” he began in a tone of mincing severity, ”are not pleased at the raucous uproar said to be coming from a mess of officers and gentlemen. We are pained. We come to lend our presence to what might otherwise develop into an unseemly brawl----” He helped himself to a walnut out of a dish on the sideboard. ”Here comes my colleague the Secretary-bird. He, too, is more grieved than angry.”

The Secretary entered warily, and intending combatants girded their loins for battle.

”Pouf!” he exclaimed. ”What a fug!” And elevated his nose with a sniff. The Fiery Cross was out.

”Out Staff!” said the Indiarubber Man in a low voice. ”Dogs of war!

Out gilded popinjays!”

With a prompt.i.tude that hinted at long experience of internecine warfare, the newcomers embraced the first maxim of war: ”If you must hit, hit first, hit hard, and keep on hitting.”

Like a flash, the two members of the Personal Staff were on the Indiarubber Man. A chair went cras.h.i.+ng, a broken gla.s.s tinkled on to the deck, to the accompaniment of protests from the Paymaster, and, before the mess could join battle, the Indiarubber Man hurtled through the doorway on to the aft-deck, to pitch at the feet of a delighted Marine sentry. By the rules of the game, once through the portals of the mess there was no return until a truce was declared. The younger members of the mess rose to a man; for a moment the guests hung back.

It is not in the best of form to sc.r.a.p in a strange mess, except by express invitation.

”Come on!” shouted the Junior Watchkeeper. ”Bite 'em in the stomach!”

and flung himself upon the Secretary.

The guests waited for no second invitation. It was a battle royal, and the Indiarubber Man, interned on the aft-deck, yelped encouragement to his erstwhile conquerors because they were fighting valiantly against hopeless odds.

A Rugby International and a middle-weight boxer of some pretensions, although hampered by aiguilettes and outnumbered six to one, were not easily disposed of. But they were ultimately overpowered, and carried, puffing with exhaustion and helpless with laughter, over the debris of the bridge-table, gramophone and paper-rack, out through the doorway.

The mess, breathing heavily, adjusted its ties and collars and smoothed its dishevelled hair. The Flag Lieutenant and Secretary retired to their cabins for more extensive repairs. The bridge-table was set upon its legs once more, the scattered cards collected.

”Polo!” said the Indiarubber Man. ”Let's play polo!”

”How d'you do that?” asked one of the ecstatic guests. At the bottom of his heart he was also wondering why the greybeards of the mess stood all this tomfoolery without protest. He had never been s.h.i.+pmates with the Indiarubber Man.

The Indiarubber Man took an orange off the sideboard, a dessert-spoon out of a drawer, and straddled over the back of a chair. ”Like this, d'you see? We generally play three a-side, but as there are six of you we'll play double sides.” He tossed the orange on to the deck, and hopped his chair in pursuit, brandis.h.i.+ng the dessert-spoon.

”That's a great game,” said the First Lieutenant of the _What Ho!_ and got him to horse. ”Come on, our side, boot and saddle!”

As the game was about to start the door opened, and the Flag Lieutenant entered hurriedly. He carried a signal-pad in his hand, and there was that in his face that silenced the polo players and caused the bridge players to lay down their hands.

”Signal,” he said curtly. ”Raise steam for full speed. Prepare for immediate action on leaving harbour.” And was gone.

Those who had immediate duties elsewhere stampeded out of the mess.