But it was very comic all the same to see those two fellows try to ignore my proceedings, poor old Barkins following Blacksmith's lead once more.

They did not want to know what I was going to do--not a bit.

And I laughed to myself as I hurriedly kicked off my shoes and put on a pair of strong boots, carefully took off my uniform jacket and replaced it by a thin tweed Norfolk, after which I extricated a pith helmet from its box, having to turn it upside down, for it was full of odds and ends.
Smith had taken up a book and pretended to read, while Barkins sat back on a locker with his hands in his pockets, and his lips thrust out and screwed as if he were whistling, but no sound came, and he stared hard at the bulkhead facing him.
But try how he would he could not keep his eyes fixed there--they would follow my movements; and twice over I caught Smith peeping round the side of the book with which he was screening his face.
I began to whistle as I rapidly made my preparations, and at last Smith could bear it no longer.
"What's the idiot dressing himself up for ?" he cried contemptuously.
That started Barkins, and he burst out with-- "What's up, Gnat?
Shore leave ?" "Eh! Didn't you know ?" I said coolly.

"Shooting." "What!" they exclaimed in a breath, and Smith's eyes were more wide open than I had ever seen them.
"Shooting," I said coolly.

"Brooke and I are going after ducks." "Gammon!" cried Barkins.