The really intriguing thing about Naval prize-money is the fact that
no one knows exactly where it comes from. You don't win it by any
definite act of superlative daring--I mean to say, you don't have to
creep out under cover of darkness and return in the morning with an
enemy battleship in tow to qualify for a modicum of this mysterious
treasure. You just proceed serenely on your lawful occasions,
confident in the knowledge that incredible sums of prize-money
are piling themselves up for your ultimate benefit. I suppose the
authorities understand all about it; nobody else does. One just lets
it pile. It is a most gratifying thought.

During the more or less stormy times of the First Great War, we of the
Navy were always able to buttress our resolution with golden hopes
of a future opulence denied to our less fortunate comrades in the
trenches. Whenever the struggle was going particularly badly
for us--when, for instance, a well-earned shore-leave had been
unexpectedly jammed or a tin of condensed milk had overturned into
somebody's sea-boot--we used to console each other with cheerful
reminders of this accumulating fruit of our endeavours. "Think of the
prize-money, my boy," we used to exclaim; "meditate upon the jingling
millions that will be yours when the dreary vigil is ended;" and as
by magic the unseemly mutterings of wrath would give place to purrs
of pleasurable anticipation. Even we of the R.N.V.R., mere temporary
face-fringes, as it were, which the razor of peace was soon to remove
from the war-time visage of the Service--even we fell under the spell.
"Fourteen million pounds!" we would gurgle, hugging ourselves with joy
in the darkness of the night-watches.

In the months immediately following demobilisation I was frequently