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The captain had gone in under the half-deck to his cabin; Buckland and Roberts were standing by the hammock nettings deep in conversation, and Bush joined them.

"These articles apply to my officers" said Buckland as he approached.

"Rope-yarn Sunday and double rum" added Roberts. "All for these good men."

Buckland shot a furtive glance round the deck before he spoke next. It was pitiful to see the first lieutenant of a ship of the line taking precautions lest what he should say should be overheard. But Hornblower and Wellard were on the other side of the wheel. On the poop the master was assembling the midshipmen's navigation class with their sextants to take their noon sights.

"He's mad" said Buckland in as low a voice as the northeast trade wind would allow.

"We all know that" said Roberts.

Bush said nothing. He was too cautious to commit himself at present.

"Clive won't lift a finger" said Buckland. "He's a ninny if there ever was one."

Clive was the surgeon.

"Have you asked him?" asked Roberts.