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Bill woke up just before six; and, hearing a complaining voice, thought at first that his military friend was still speaking. The voice got more and more querulous with occasional excursions into the profane, and the seaman, rubbing his eyes, turned his head, and saw old Thomas groping about the forecastle.

“Wot’s the matter with you, old ‘un?” he demanded.

“I can’t find my trousis,” grumbled the old man.

“Did you ‘ave ’em on larst night?” inquired Bill, who was still half asleep.

“Course I did, you fool,” said the other snappishly.

“Be civil,” said Bill, calmly, “be civil. Are you sure you haven’t got ’em on now?”

The old man greeted this helpful suggestion with such a volley of abuse that Bill lost his temper.

“P’r’aps somebody’s got ’em on their bed, thinking they was a patchwork quilt,” he said, coldly; “it’s a mistake anybody might make. Have you got the jacket?”

“I ain’t got nothing,” replied the bewildered old man, “‘cept wot I stand up in.”

“That ain’t much,” said Bill frankly. “Where’s that blooming sojer?” he demanded suddenly.

“I don’t know where ‘e is, and I don’t care,” replied the old man. “On deck, I s’pose.”

“P’r’aps ‘e’s got ’em on,” said the unforgiving Bill; “‘e didn’t seem a very pertikler sort of chap.”

The old man started, and hurriedly ascended to the deck. He was absent two or three minutes, and, when he returned, consternation was writ large upon his face.

“He’s gone,” he spluttered; “there ain’t a sign of ‘im about, and the life-belt wot hangs on the galley ‘as gone too. Wot am I to do?”

“Well, they was very old cloes,” said Bill, soothingly, “an’ you ain’t a bad figger, not for your time o’ life, Thomas.”

“There’s many a wooden-legged man ‘ud be glad to change with you,” affirmed Ted, who had been roused by the noise. “You’ll soon get over the feeling o’ shyness, Thomas.”

The forecastle laughed encouragingly, and Thomas, who had begun to realise the position, joined in. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and his excitement began to alarm his friends.

“Don’t be a fool, Thomas,” said Bob, anxiously.

“I can’t help it,” said the old man, struggling hysterically; “it’s the best joke I’ve heard.”

“He’s gone dotty,” said Ted, solemnly. “I never ‘eard of a man larfing like that a ‘cos he’d lorst ‘is cloes.”

“I’m not larfing at that,” said Thomas, regaining his composure by a great effort. “I’m larfing at a joke wot you don’t know of yet.”

A deadly chill struck at the hearts of the listeners at these words, then Bill, after a glance at the foot of his bunk, where he usually kept his clothes, sprang out and began a hopeless search. The other men followed suit, and the air rang with lamentations and profanity. Even the spare suits in the men’s chests had gone; and Bill, a prey to acute despair, sat down, and in a striking passage consigned the entire British Army to perdition.

“‘E’s taken one suit and chucked the rest overboard, I expect, so as we sha’n’t be able to go arter ‘im,” said Thomas. “I expect he could swim arter all, Bill.”

Bill, still busy with the British Army, paid no heed.

“We must go an’ tell the old man,” said Ted.

“Better be careful,” cautioned the cook. “‘Im an’ the mate ‘ad a go at the whisky last night, an’ you know wot ‘e is next morning.”

The men went up slowly on deck. The morning was fine, but the air, chill with a breeze from the land, had them at a disadvantage. Ashore, a few people were early astir.

“You go down, Thomas, you’re the oldest,” said Bill.

“I was thinking o’ Ted going,” said Thomas, “‘e’s the youngest.”

Ted snorted derisively. “Oh, was you?” he remarked helpfully.

“Or Bob,” said the old man, “don’t matter which.”

“Toss up for it,” said the cook.

Bill, who was keeping his money in his hand as the only safe place left to him, produced a penny and spun it in the air.