Brooks smiled faintly.

"That's what they call-ah-seditious talk, Johnson," he said mildly.

"Sorry, sir. Suppose I shouldn't, it's just that I------"

"Never mind, Johnson. I asked for it. Can't stop anyone from thinking. Only, don't think out loud. It's, it's prejudicial to naval discipline... I think your friend Riley wants you. Better get him a dictionary."

He turned and pushed his way through the surgery curtains. A dark head, all that could be seen behind the dentist's chair, twisted round.

Johnny Nicholls, Acting Surgeon Lieutenant, rose quickly to his feet, a pile of report cards dangling from his left hand. "Hallo, sir. Have a pew." Brooks grinned.

"An excellent thing, Lieutenant Nicholls, truly gratifying, to meet these days a junior officer who knows his place. Thank you, thank you."

He climbed into the chair and sank back with a groan, fiddling with the neck-rest.

"If you'll just adjust the foot-rest, my boy... so. Ah, thank you." He leaned back luxuriously, eyes closed, head far back on the rest, and groaned again. "I'm an old man, Johnny, my boy, just an ancient has, been."

"Nonsense, sir," Nicholls said briskly. "Just a slight malaise. Now, if you'll let me prescribe a suitable tonic..."

He turned to a cupboard, fished out two tooth-glasses and a dark-green, ribbed bottle marked "Poison." He filled the glasses and handed one to Brooks. "My personal recommendation. Good health, ski"

Brooks looked at the amber liquid, then at Nicholls. "Heathenish practices they taught you at these Scottish Universities, my boy... Admirable fellers, some of these old heathens. What is it this time, Johnny?"