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ashore to the old White Hart with us. You like?”
    Royce was already buttoning his jacket, and searching for his respirator. “Thanks very much; two pieces of good news in one evening is more than I can resist.”
    Emberson winked. “Not only a keen lad, but eager!”
    The White Hart was situated half-way along the port’s High Street, between the food office and a musty-looking restaurant, its high, ornate façade giving the appearance of vulgar opulence amongst the other neglected and weather-beaten buildings. As the three officers pushed open the swing doors and fumbled through the heavy blackout curtains, the brassy, cheerful noise, coupled with the mixed aromas of beer and tobacco, overwhelmed them. The evening was young, but already the bar was half filled with early drinkers, mostly naval officers from the local flotillas, with a pale blue sprinkling of the Air Force Coastal Command base nearby. Here and there, in the odd corners of the vast lounge, were the seemingly misplaced regular customers, their dowdy suits making a sharp contrast with the uniforms. They too were mixed, either elderly, sitting quietly with their friends and watching the young sailors’ friendly horseplay, or young and loud-mouthed, the product of the port’s reserved occupations. These latter were usually overpaid and, therefore, overconfident of their new surroundings.
    The long bar of dark wood, shiny with bright lights and spilt beer, was ably controlled and easily dominated by a cheerful barmaid of supreme proportions, who scurried to and fro with pots and glasses, her plump face split into a permanent grin, and her speedy service punctuated with giggles and nods to her thirsty court, and a hurried, “Sorry, love, no spirits,” to any strange face which hovered near her domain. The landlord, a rotund and grizzled little man, in a shabby tweed suit, remained at the end of the counter, passing the time with his cronies, and keeping a watchful eye on the busy scene.
    Emberson shouldered his way through the crowd. “Ah, Grace, my beloved,” he called, “could my friends and I have three large pints, and three halves of your very best cider.”
    Grace beamed. “Oo, sir, I thought you’d be out tonight, what a nice surprise.”
    â€œSo much for security,” said Emberson, with mock sadness.
    Royce eased his way through the crush, and plucked at his sleeve. “I don’t like cider; thanks, the beer’ll do.”
    â€œShurrup, nitwit!” hissed Emberson. “It’s Scotch! What do you want to do, start a riot in here?”
    They found a small table, conveniently abandoned by the R.A.F., and sat back, stretching luxuriously.
    Harston drank deeply. “The friendliest joint in the town,” he smiled, “and with Artie’s influence over the queen there, we are more or less well in for the duration.”
    â€œDear me,” replied the lawyer. “A most unfortunate expression. When will you realize that my feelings for the wee Grace are just platonic.” He regarded Harston solemnly. “You, sir, have no soul. How can you keep the respect of young Clive here, if you can’t learn to moderate your approach to the fair sex.”
    Royce relaxed in his chair, enjoying the wrangling of his companions, and feeling for the first time accepted into the close fraternity which he had chosen a year—a lifetime—ago.
    The evening wore on, and the bar filled to its uproarious capacity, while from the radio Vera Lynn did her best to comfort the nation’s young men elsewhere. Here in the White Hart her efforts seemed wasted. Royce’s mind swam happily, and he seemed vaguely unable to prevent his face from slipping into a vast smile of good fellowship. His detached thoughts were shattered by a mighty slap on the shoulder which made him cannon into the table, nearly causing a disaster.
    Benjy Watson’s shiny pink face floated over