The Dreadnought of the Air

IT was Thursday afternoon-Make and Mend Clothes Day as it is known in the Royal Navy. H.M.S. "Royal Oak," a Super-Dreadnought now relegated to the second class, lay at moorings off Singapore. Two cables' length ahead of her swung her sister ship the "Repulse," flying the flag of Admiral Maynebrace commanding the Special Squadron, now on a cruise round the world in order to display the White Ensign in foreign waters as a gentle reminder to petty potentates that the British Lion's tail could not be twisted with impunity.

The heat was terrific. The sun's scorching rays beat down with relentless violence upon the white awnings that shrouded the warships from bow to stern. The glare, reflected from the oily sea, seemed to penetrate everywhere on board in spite of electric fans and the latest type of ventilators. Officers and men, used though they were to the heat of the Tropics, were reduced to a state of perspiring listlessness. Alacrity seemed for the time being no longer the characteristic of the British seamen. One and all they barely existed in Nature's stew-pan and waited for the sun to set.

To add to the discomfort the crew of the "Royal Oak" were rankling under a grievance. Hitherto first in the list for prize-firing, they had been ousted from their proud position by the flagship: and the flagship didn't forget to crow over her success. Had the contest been carried out under equal conditions and the "Royal Oak" had "gone under" the disappointment would not have been so great; but the "Repulse" had gained the position of "top-dog" more by a fluke than anything else.

"Makes one feel jolly rotten," remarked Eccles, the "Royal Oak's" gunnery jack. "The Service papers at home will publish the results and add a lot about the superb efficiency of the flagship and the lamentable falling-off of the 'Royal Oak's' gun-layers. All that sort of twaddle, you know: penny-a-line stuff from a fellow who does not know a fifteen-inch from a seven-pounder."

"You'll bet your bottom dollar, Eccles, there won't be a word said about the flagship making her record with the Beaufort Scale logged as O (a flat calm), while our packet was shoving her nose into it with the fo'c'sle awash and everything battened down. Ugh! It makes me wild," rejoined Commander Bourne. "Healthy rivalry is all very well, but--"

"I don't know whether you heard the yarn," said Eccles, "but indirectly an outstanding row between the Admiral and the skipper has something to do with it: a little misunderstanding they had when they were at Osborne, I believe. And the fact that Maynebrace is now an admiral and Staggers only a captain doesn't improve matters. The owner forgets sometimes that the Admiral's grandfather was an earl and his only a post-captain."

"I did hear something of the sort," replied Bourne. "It's a pity that personal matters are taken into consideration in the Service. Anyway, Captain Staggers would be glad of a chance to pull the Admiral's leg."

"Hear that?" asked little Dick Alderney, the midshipman of the watch.

"Rather," agreed Sub-lieutenant Basil Dacres emphatically. "It almost gives one a cue."

Basil Dacres was a tall, alert-looking young officer of nineteen. His features were clean cut, his complexion tanned to a deep brown by reason of exposure to the sun and the salt breezes of three of the five oceans. His athletic frame betokened a zest for sport, for in spite of the heat he paced the deck with an elasticity of tread that denoted exceptional physical energy. It did not take long for an observer to come to the right conclusion that Basil Dacres' solemnity of manner when on duty was an acquired one. Those dancing clear blue eyes betrayed the inborn love of a high-spirited nature. Even the rigid rules and regulations of the Service could not break his fondness of practical Joking.

Yet, somehow, he contrived to wriggle out of the dire consequences without dishonour, and upon calming down he would enter into the preparatory stages of perpetrating another joke. Upon the eve of his departure from home on the present commission this trait asserted itself. Dacres' little pranks were invariably intended to be of a harmless nature, but sometimes the result surpassed his expectations.

Dacres' father was a retired colonel who, possessed of ample private means, kept a large establishment in the West End. The colonel was absolutely military to the backbone, a martinet even in home life, although "his bark was worse than his bite." One thing is certain, Basil Dacres never inherited the lighter vein from his father, for the latter was never known to have spoken a funny sentence except by a sheer accident; and then, when the rest of the mess laughed, he was completely puzzled to know why.

It happened that the Thursday on which the sub was to leave to join his ship was his mother's at-home day, and Mrs. Dacres' at-homes were always well-attended. On this occasion there were present a colonial bishop and his wife in addition to the usual "smart-set" in which the hostess moved.

Now Mrs. Dacres' Georgian silver tea service was the envy and admiration of her guests, and Mrs. Colonial Bishop had been previously told to pay particular attention to the magnificent teapot. In came the head footman, resplendent in his fine livery and powdered hair, and placed the tray in front of the hostess. The far-famed teapot, enveloped in a huge cosy, was for the time being hidden from admiring and covetous eyes.

"Pouring-out" was one of the great events of Mrs. Dacres' at-homes: it was a sort of sacrifice at the altar of conventionality.

The hostess, after having asked whether the guests took cream and sugar, made a preliminary flourish ere removing the covering that hid the gorgeous silver teapot. The act was a silent appeal for attention, and all eyes were fixed in anticipation upon the piece of plate that held the fragrant beverage.

With the dexterity of a practised conjuror Mrs. Dacres lifted the cosy. . . .

In the place of the teapot was a huge tortoise that blinked solemnly at the sudden transit from darkness into light, and proceeded to slowly waddle across the slippery silver tray.

The next instant, amidst a chorus of shrieks, tortoise and tea-things, including the choicest Crown Derby, clattered on the floor.

The sub's departure took place under a cloud. His mother's farewell was somewhat chilly, while the colonel spoke his mind in a very blunt manner.

"Mark my words, you confounded young fool!" he said, "unless you stop this sort of thing there'll be trouble. It will end with your being court-martialled and kicked out of the Service. And, by Jove! if you are, don't look to me for any sympathy."

But the funny part about the whole business was that Basil knew nothing about the tortoise episode until after the tea cosy was removed. His part of the joke was to take the blame upon his broad shoulders and to chuckle at the idea that he had been accused of what he had not done. He was not asked for an explanation, nor did he give one. He had no wish that punishment should fall upon the real culprit-his ten-year-old brother, Clarence; for the fond parents never for one moment suspected that guile could be found in their cherub-faced youngest-born child.

"Give you a cue-what about?" asked the midshipman.

The sub brought himself up with a round turn. He realized that perhaps it was not altogether wise to confide in his subordinate over the plan that had readily resolved itself in his brain.

"H'm!" he ejaculated. "Eccles seems rather up the pole about the prize-firing result. I suppose it's natural."

"Well, aren't you, sir?" asked Alderney. "I know I am, and so are the rest of the gun-room. Just fancy! the midshipmen of the flagship, whom we licked hollow at cricket, actually had the cheek to row round the ship with a cock perched on a jack-staff in the bows, and the whole crowd crowing like anything. Beastly bad form, I call it. After all, gunnery isn't everything, as the Admiral ought to know he had with the 'Aphrodite.'"

"The submarine? Yes, I remember. She's 'M. I.' now. That business has given us a good lead in submarines and pretty well knocked the Flying Branch into a cocked hat, worse luck."

And Dacres shook his shoulders deprecatingly. He had volunteered for the Service with the Naval Wing of the Royal Flying Corps, but owing to an unexpected decision on the part of the First Lord to cut down that part of the Service his offer had been declined.

Just then Sinclair, the duty-sub for the First Dog Watch, came on deck, and Dacres, freed from his responsible duty of doing nothing in particular, made his way below to the gun-room.

There the conversation was mainly upon the bumptiousness of the flagship. Dacres said little, but thought the more. After a while he went to the half-deck and knocked at the Gunnery Lieutenant's cabin door. He was there for nearly an hour, at the end of which time he applied for leave till eight bells (noon) on the following day. This he obtained without difficulty, then changing into mufti he went ashore.