"Nothing, sir; a patrol destroyer; had to alter course to clear her. No, sir, the wind is steady, sir."
It was six o'clock now--four bells clanged below--the first dog-watch was finished, and presently the Pink Rat came up to relieve the Orphan.
"Jolly slack on it!" grumbled the Orphan as he bumped into him and dived down below.
The easiest way aft was along the mess deck--the upper deck was so dark--and as the Orphan passed through one of the stokers' messes he saw Fletcher, the old stoker of his picket-boat, sitting at a mess table, all alone, under an electric light, his face buried in his hands, and a Bible before him.
"What's the matter, Fletcher? you look jolly mouldy," he said, stopping at the end of the table. "What's the matter? Bad news?"
"Yes, sir," he said gently, standing up, one hand pushing his gold spectacles back on his nose, the other marking the place in the book. "A letter from my wife. Our last boy's been killed in France, sir. That's the third; he was a corporal, sir."
His old, refined, tired face looked so abjectly miserable that the Orphan did not know what to say. "Come and get a drink. That'll buck you up," he stuttered.
But Fletcher shook his head. "I'm an abstainer, sir; thank you very much." And the snotty, muttering "I'm sorry", went away along the rest of the noisy, crowded mess deck towards the gun-room.
There was comparative quiet there. The Sub and Uncle Podger were sitting in front of the stove, reading.
"You know old Fletcher--the stoker of my boat; he's frightfully miserable; he's sitting down in his mess looking awful; he's just heard that his last son's been killed; I wish we could do something for him. The letter must have come when I brought off the postman."
"How about a drink?" asked the Sub, scratching his head. "I _am_ sorry."
"Who's that?" asked Uncle Podger; "that old chap with the gold specs?"
"Fancy having to stick it out--all the misery of it--in a mess deck, with hundreds of chaps cursing and joking all round you," the Sub said. "I don't see what we can do to help him."
"You've got a cabin," Uncle Podger suggested. "Get him down in it; shut him in for an hour. What he wants most is to be alone."
"Right oh!" said the Sub, springing to his feet. "I've got the first watch; he can stay there till 'pipe down';" and he sent Barnes, the purple-faced marine, to find Fletcher and tell him that the Sub-lieutenant wanted him at once in his cabin.