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trumpet. He noted it in the log as ‘athletic training.’
    Some College activities were held after supper. One of them was the Dancing Class.
    The Dancing Class was taught by the wife of a College master. Partners were provided by other masters’ wives, by the nursing sisters from the hospital and by various other ladies in the College whom The Bodger loftily referred to as ‘the camp-followers one gets in any great establishment.’
    The dancing took place to the music of a gramophone. The College had a limited stock of records and cadets who went to the classes for any length of time became accustomed to them and to no others. The Dartmouth Dancing Class was thus responsible for the widely held belief amongst naval wives that naval officers can only dance to certain tunes and only then when they have had sufficient to drink.
    None of the Beattys except Raymond Ball attended the Dancing Class. One or two of them tried, Michael among them, because they felt that dancing, however repugnant, was an accomplishment they should possess.
    On the one occasion when Michael attended the Dancing Class he was ordered, on entering the room, to take up his position for what sounded to him to be The Promenade Whisk with Sideways Chassé. Michael turned and bolted and never returned. It seemed that the Dancing Class had been going on since the College was built. Michael had no doubt that at one time, possibly between the wars, the class had been learning simple steps. But they had now progressed into the realms of fantasy and there seemed no way of bringing them back.
    Raymond Ball was the exception. He was an experienced chevalier of the chassé, a paladin of the palais, a hardened veteran of many campaigns, from the Lyceum to Hammersmith. He was probably the first cadet ever to have come to Dartmouth with a Gold Medal for Ballroom Dancing. He was a triton amongst the minnows at the College class and even the class teacher, who was holding perspiring cadets at arm’s length before Raymond Ball was born, had to admit herself outclassed.
    But for most of the Beattys the time between supper and going to bed was the only time of the day which they could call their own and they preferred not to spend it in such cold-blooded pursuits as ballroom dancing. Evening was the time for reflection, for unbuckling the spirit after the exertions of the day. It was the only time when the Beattys could attempt to take stock of what was happening to them at Dartmouth.
    ‘What amazes me,’ Paul said in the chest flat one evening, ‘is the emphasis they put on trivial things. If you can climb a rope, you’re made. If you can tie bloody silly knots, you’ve got a great future in the service. What are they getting at? What’s it all leading up to? Do they want a lot of performing monkeys or what do they want?’
    ‘It’s almost like a continuation of school,’ said Michael. ‘But not quite. They seem to put a kind of pressure on you which school never did.’
    ‘They take it so seriously, too. This place must cost thousands to keep up. What’ve we got tomorrow?’
    Michael consulted a timetable which he made out for each week. He was a methodical boy and wrote on his timetable his work and recreation for every hour of every day. The timetable was neatly ruled off and gave times to the nearest minute. Paul and the rest of the chest flat found it invaluable.
    ‘P.T. tomorrow. . . ’
    ‘Oh Lord.’
    ‘... Then The Bodger for Ship Organisation, Chipperd for Anchors and Cables, Chief G.I. for Parade Training. In the afternoon we’ve got the Schooly for navigation. In the Dogs we’ve got that match against the Officers and Masters. After supper the Bodger again on Leadership. Tomorrow’s also the day we’ve got to enter our marks for throwing the heaving line. . . .’
    ‘Enough, enough. ‘Tis not so deep as a well or so wide as a church door but ‘tis enough. ‘Twill serve. Will there be time for me to go to the heads sometime, do you