There is a story told of a London 'bus-driver who devoted a rare holiday to playing the role of passenger on his own vehicle. Similar motives doubtless prompt hundreds of bluejackets and marines to hire private skiffs during their leave. One has but to go to Southsea beach, the shores of the Hamoaze, or the mouth of the Medway to see jolly tars and jovial "joeys" rowing in shore-boats as if that form of recreation was the greatest treat imaginable. It is, then, not so much to be wondered at that Gerald Tregarthen elected to spend most of his leave on board the 4-ton cutter _Playmate_, at that moment lying in Poole Harbour, the yacht being owned by his old school-chum, Jack Stockton.
The appearance of the two officers on deck was immediately followed by the hoarse orders of the quarter-master. The boat's crew manned the falls, and the little craft was brought alongside the destroyer's starboard quarter. Tregarthen's luggage, consisting only of a well-filled portmanteau, was handed over the side, and, having bade his senior officer goodbye, the sub-lieutenant took his place in the stern-sheets. A quarter of an hour later Gerald Tregarthen landed at the King's Stairs, and, followed by a seaman bearing his portmanteau, walked rapidly through the dockyard to the main gate. Here a lynx-eyed driver; spotting a likely fare, ran his taxi close up to the spot where the young sub. was standing.
"Town station for all you're worth," exclaimed Tregarthen, but ere he could enter the taxi a boy rushed up to him.
"Evening paper, sir? All the latest naval appointments."
This is a bait that rarely fails to draw the naval man. Taking the paper Tregarthen boarded the vehicle, and was soon bowling along towards the railway station.
Two unavoidable delays were sufficient to alter Tregarthen's arrangements, for on arriving at the town station he found that he had missed the 4.45 Bournemouth train by a bare two minutes. Little did he imagine that the loss of those two minutes was fated to effect a tremendous change in his career at no distant date.
"Next train 6.2, sir," replied a porter in answer to the sub.'s anxious inquiry.
"Just my luck. Over an hour to wait," soliloquised the disappointed sub., and sitting down and placing his portmanteau by his side, he unfolded the sheets of the newspaper.