"May I remind you all that it's Saturday Night at Sea?" and gave the
decanters a little push towards his left-hand neighbour. The First
Lieutenant brushed the starters into a heap at his side; the faintest
shadow passed across his brow.
"So it is!" echoed several voices.
"Now, Shortie, fill up! Snatcher, you'd better have a bucket....
'There's a Burmah girl a-settin' an' I know she thinks,'--port, Number
One?" The First Lieutenant signed an imperceptible negation and pushed
the decanter round, murmuring something about hereditary gout.
It was ten years since he had drunk that toast: since a certain tragic
dawn, stealing into the bedroom of a Southsea lodging, found him on his
knees at a bedside.... They all knew the story, as men in Naval Messes
afloat generally do know each other's tragedies and joys. And yet his
right-hand neighbour invariably murmured the same formula as he passed
the wine on Saturday nights at sea. In its way it was considered a
rather subtle intimation that no one wanted to pry into his sorrow--even
to the extent of presuming that he would never drink that health again.
In the same way they all knew that it was the one occasion on which the
little Engineer Lieutenant permitted himself the extravagance of wine.
He was saving up to get married; and perhaps for the reason that he had
never mentioned the fact, every one not only knew it, but loved and
chaffed him for it.
The decanters travelled round, and the First Lieutenant leaned across to
the Engineer Lieutenant, who was contemplatively watching the smoke of
his cigarette. There was a whimsical smile in the grave, level eyes.
"I suppose we shall have to think about rigging a garland[#] before
long, eh?"
[#] A garland of evergreens is triced up to the triatic stay between the
masts on the occasion of an officer's marriage.