THE vessel to which Bobbie went had been in its gallant youth a
battleship and possessed an eventful and a creditable record. Moored in
the Thames off the flat coast of Essex, and painted black, it was a huge,
solid, responsible three-decker, doing excellent work in the autumn of
its life, and giving temporary residence to some five or six hundred
boys. Mainly, the youngsters were metropolitan, but sometimes the
guardians of distant towns in the North would arrange with the Board for
one of their lads to be consigned to the training ship, who, being
arrived, spoke a language that seemed to the London boys almost foreign.
A long, low jetty ran from the shore as far as it dared into the water;
where it stopped, a gig rowed by eight of the boys, under the command of
an officer, took you off to the big black ship, on the starboard side of
which a dozen small boats rocked and nudged each other in the ribs, and a
barge dozed stolidly. (In case of alarm the whole of the boys could be
cleared out of the ship and carried away by these to safety.) Away down
the river a smart brigantine berthed generally in view, and this the boys
who intended to join the Royal Navy gazed at hopefully, because it was
the brigantine which taught them seamanship, with assistance from a
master mariner and two mates; it was the brigantine, too, which now and
again skimmed the cream of the _Westmouth_ in the shape of some forty
boys whom it conveyed out of the river into the open, and presently down
Channel to one of the training vessels which acted as the last refining
process before entrance was made into the service. To the Essex shore
came, nearly every week, from various poor-law schools, boys who, after
inspection, were conveyed out to the _Westmouth_, where the captain
looked at the doctor’s report, giving their heights, chest measurements,
and other particulars forming the foundation of their dossier. This
over, the new boys went back to shore to be clothed in sailor uniform,
and re-appeared in blue serge trousers and jacket and cap, trying to look
as though the navy had for them no secrets, and the _Westmouth_ nothing
in the way of information to impart. They came in and went out of the
training vessel at the rate of about three hundred year, so that the
numbered white cases down on the lower deck containing kits were always
in use, and every hammock on the three decks contained at night a
tired-out lad.
For Robert Lancaster soon discovered that the note of the _Westmouth_ was
to keep moving. If you worked, you worked hard; if you played, you
played hard. School had no great demands upon him now, for being out of
the Fourth Standard, it was required of him that he should attend but two
hours on the Friday of every week; a boy might have assumed that with
this dispensation one could look forward to a life of ease and content.
Not so on board the _Westmouth_. Robert Lancaster was never allowed to
be lazy. The life formed an exact opposite to those old days at Hoxton
(several centuries ago it seemed to him), when the delight of life was to
“mouch,” which, translated, is to wander through the years aimlessly.
Robert made some vague suggestions of reform to his comrades, with the
result that a boy from Poplar made up his mind to state a complaint
formally on the first opportunity. The Poplar boy (numbered 290) had
already written a brief account, which he had shown to Robert, entitled
“The Mutiny on the _Westmouth_,” a forecast of a somewhat bloodthirsty
character, where gore flowed readily, and exclamations of a melodramatic
character were used, such as “Die, you dog!” and “At last we meet face to
face!” but Robert criticized this with some acidity, because in the
course of it Number Two Ninety himself performed all the deeds of
surpassing valour, using six Martini-Henry rifles and a field gun, at the
same time doing desperate action with two cutlasses: the end of the
account gave a gruesome description of the upper deck strewn with the
bodies of officers, and of Number Two Ninety-being unanimously elected
captain by his fellow mutineers. Robert said he thought the picture
overdrawn. Opportunity, however, occurred on some of the guardians from
Poplar visiting the ship; one, a sharp clergyman, demanded to know of the
Poplar boys whether they had any complaint to make.
“No, sir,” sang most of the Poplar boys. The mutineer’s arm went up.
“Ah!” said the clergyman gratified. “Here’s a lad now who has something
to say.”
“Step forward, Two Ninety,” ordered the old captain. “Tell this
gentleman what it is you wish to complain of. Is it the food?”
“Grub’s all right, sir,” growled the Poplar boy.
“Is it the uniform?” asked the sharp clergyman.
“No fault to find with the clothes, sir.”
“Is it the ship?”
“Ship’s good enough, sir.”
Robert Lancaster, passing with a pail, half stopped to hear what the
Poplar boy would say under this process of exhaustion.
“Well, well, what is the complaint you wish to make?”
Two Ninety from Poplar twisted his sailor’s cap nervously, and looked
with some interest at his shoes.
“Well, sir,” he burst out, “it’s like this. They always keep on making
you keep on.”
Robert Lancaster, finding after a few weeks that his disinclination to
continuous work and exercise had vanished, detached himself therefore
from the small set on the _Westmouth_, called “The Born-Tireds.” After
the fifth week privileges came to him; he was allowed to go ashore with
the other boys on Sunday afternoon; he joined in the drill, and this he
liked so much that he concealed from the officers the fact that the
cornet and he were close acquaintances, fearing that membership of the
band, which practised far away down in the hold, would interfere. He
found books in the library with a sea flavour, and read Stevenson and
Henty, and Clark Russell. He liked Clark Russell’s books, because they
had always one admirable young lady in a distressful predicament, and
this young lady he always thought of as being Trixie Bell—Trixie who had
sent him her photograph, taken by an eminent artist of Hackney Road, and
presenting her as in a snowstorm, with no hat, a basket of choice roses
on her arm. At prayers one night, Robert found himself, somewhat to his
surprise, introducing a special silent reference to Trixie, and, pleased
with his daring originality, he continued it, feeling in a shy,
half-ashamed way, that he had now assumed a responsible position in
regard to the young lady. For the rest, there was not much time on the
_Westmouth_ to think of outside affairs.
He found his average day made up in this manner. At six o’clock in the
morning, the lower deck, where he and some three hundred other boys
slept, became suddenly filled with the blaring of a bugle; on the instant
Robert slipped out of his hammock. The chief petty officers (important
lads of about fifteen or sixteen) issued orders, the boys dressed
swiftly, hammocks were rolled up and stowed away at the sides, and then
the busy working day began. Robert Lancaster, despatched with other
gallant sailors of his division, scrubbed the upper deck (protected by a
canvas awning in summer, and an awning and curtains in winter), the while
two divisions saw to the main deck. Then the upper deck had to be
swabbed, under the superintendence of the ship’s officers, and, this
done, breakfast-time had arrived. Robert Lancaster always felt the
better for his breakfast, being, indeed, of the growing age when appetite
is nearly ever acute and demanding to be satisfied. The watch on the
mess deck cleared away, and at half-past eight one bell sounded. At nine
o’clock two bells sounded, with the singers’ call for prayers and also
for punishments, at which hour a few boys with correction looming close
to them, wished that they had chosen the life of a landsman. The
excellent old captain’s theory was that you should either pat a boy on
the back or cane him on the back, and this system worked out very well in
practice; the most severe punishment consisted of a few hours’ solitude
in the dark cell at the foc’sle end of the ship—an extreme remedy
resorted to but once or twice a year. Prayers and punishment being over,
there occurred work again. Sail-making, painting the sides of the
_Westmouth_, seamanship instruction; in the tailors’ shop, manufacture of
flags, repairing of oilskins and sou’westers, lengthening of trousers for
their growing owners, making of seamanship stripes, re-covering of
life-belts; the biggest boys in the Rigger’s class called upon to strip
and serve afresh the lower rigging of the ship. Relaxation came to
Robert when sent out with others in one of the small boats which
clustered at the side of the _Westmouth_, on which occasions he learnt
the arts of boat-pulling and boat-sailing, under the guidance of a
giant-voiced officer, who roared advice and frank criticism. Signalling
had to be learnt, and this demanded of Robert that his intelligence
should be livened; the lad being on his mettle, and having made up his
mind to extort the secrets from this cryptic procedure, earned
commendation. There were classes in gunnery, too, where knowledge was
gained in using the rifle and cutlass, as well as the management of field
guns; the rifles full-sized, and, indeed, a little out of proportion to
the height of the smaller boys, so that it sometimes seemed that it would
have been easier for the Martini-Henry to manage the boy than for the boy
to manage the Martini-Henry. And about mid-day, after half an hour’s
rest, when Robert bowled boys out on the upper deck, or being at the
wickets set in a wooden socket, sent the ball flying away to the Essex
shore, came dinner. Now dinner on the _Westmouth_, mind you, was dinner.
A bugle call brought the boys scurrying down the broad hatchway on to the
mess deck, where a harmonium had been placed in position, and, as they
hurried down, adjusting their red handkerchiefs bib-fashion, the cook’s
assistants dragged young lorries around by the long wooden tables, one
waggon loaded with roast beef, another waggon carrying potatoes, another
bearing vegetables and another bread. The boys on sharp days when
appetite had become keen found it difficult to sing the grace to which
the harmonium played a prelude, because their mouths watered. The scent
from the roast beef was to them the most entrancing perfume, and ranged
in companies they could not prevent their eyes from wandering to their
table where portions were being served out in the deep tin plates. A
bugle call—everything on board the _Westmouth_ was done by bugle calls;
and none was so effective as the call for silence—and grace.
“Be present at our table, Lord,
Be ’ere and everywhere adored;
These creatures bless, and grant that we
May feast in Paradise with Thee.”
On ordinary days, work re-commenced in the afternoon with occasional
brief rests for play, and after tea if there still remained work to do it
had to be done. Strict orders had to be observed in the way of
behaviour, and Robert slipped into these with greater ease because of his
experience in the Cottage Homes. He learnt that an order being given,
obedience had to follow instantly and without question; the saluting of
the officers was, he knew, but a respectful sign of his willingness to
comply with this rule. In this way Robert Lancaster learnt discipline.
“It’s easy enough,” argued Robert to the Poplar boy when he had been on
the ship for nearly a year and was looking forward to the position of
Chief Petty Officer with three stripes on his arm and a salary of penny a
week, “once you get into the swing of it. If you do have to put up with
a bit of rough, you’ve always got your Wednesdays to look forward to.”
Wednesday, indeed, represented the golden day of the week for the
_Westmouth_. Friends came then on permission of the Captain, and when
one evening a letter from Trixie Bell was brought over to the ship by the
post boy, a letter which asked her dear Robert to obtain a permit for
two, the lad procured this and sent it off with bashful anticipation of
seeing the young lady and her large mother. The afternoon came, and he
watched each arrival of the gig from the shore for the first sight of
Trixie; wondering amusedly how Mrs. Bell would endure the brief passage
and how she would be hauled out of the boat. But Trixie did not arrive
nor did her mother come to endanger the safety of the gig; instead Number
Three Thirty-Three (who was Robert) found himself called to receive a
mite of a woman in a sailor hat bearing the inscription H.M.S.
_Magnificent_ in large gold letters, who having come up the ladder at the
side of the ship one step at a time, now stood with a net full of oranges
and cakes beside her; her hands at her waist as though doubtful whether
she ought not to dance a hornpipe, and looking up at Robert with her
bead-like eyes full of astonishment.
“Why,” cried little Miss Threepenny, “if he hasn’t grown up to be a
reg’lar what’s a name.”
“I was expecting two others,” remarked Robert, bending shyly to shake
hands.
“They couldn’t come and they sent me instead,” said the little woman,
mopping her forehead with her handkerchief. “Poor Mrs. Bell is as bad as
bad, and Trixie—bless her ’eart—wouldn’t think of leaving her. So I
says, ‘Sposin’ I go?’ And Trixie says, ‘You, Miss Threepenny?’ and I
says, ‘Yes, me. It’s my annual ’oliday from Tabernacle Street Wednesday
next, and—’”
“And here you are.”
“‘Why,’ says Trixie,” went on the small woman, declining to anticipate
the end of her story, “‘you’ll go and get lost.’ And I says, ‘Stuff and
nonsense; if a grown-up woman of forty can’t take care of herself, who
can? Besides,’ I says, ‘I want to see the dear boy.’ And Trixie says,
‘So did I.’”
“Oh, she said that, did she?” remarked Robert gratified. Other boys
crowded round, preparing to invent humorous badinage.
“Ah!” said Miss Threepenny acutely, “and what’s more, she meant it.”
It required some courage for a boy of Robert’s age to escort the amazing
little woman over the ship; urgent whispers from the other lads to be
introduced to the new missis did not assist him. The Chief Officer
nodded approvingly, and this gave encouragement.
“Booking clerk at Fenchurch Street,” chattered on the little woman, “gave
me ’alf a ticket, and I gave him a bit of my mind. People think because
I ain’t so tall as I might be that I ’aren’t got a tongue in me ’ead.
They find out their mistake.”
“Is Mrs. Bell very ill?”
“She ain’t much longer for this world,” answered Miss Threepenny. “She
may linger on for a year or two, but that good young gel of hers will be
left all alone in the world before she’s very much older. Fortunately
she’s got a wise ’ead on young shoulders and—What low ceilings they are
’ere.” The little woman bent her small body from an entirely unfounded
fear of touching the roof with her sailor hat. “What’s this part of the
ship called, Bobbie?”
“This,” explained the lad, “is called the foc’sle.”
“Why?”
“Ah!” said Robert, “‘why’ is the one word you mustn’t use on board ship.”
Little Miss Threepenny trotted round, breathless with the endeavour to
keep up with the lad’s stride, presently thanking her stars in earnest
terms when, the hour being two, she was allowed to sit on the foc’sle
steps of the upper deck in company with a few mothers and sisters to
watch the afternoon’s entertainment.
“I shall ’ave to take notice of everything,” she chirruped, “and go
through it all when I get back to Pimlico Walk. Trixie will want to ’ear
about it.”
“Don’t you go and get frightened,” urged Robert.
“Me frightened?”
“There’ll be some desperate deeds performed during the next hour,” said
Robert importantly.
“So long as there’s no firing of guns,” said the little woman, adjusting
her skirts precisely, “I shan’t so much as wink. Once they begin to bang
away—”
Two of the women visitors who had been looking curiously at the small
creature, hastened to remark with the knowledge born of experience that
there would be firing, one adding that for her part she always shut her
eyes and put her hands over her ears when it came to that part; an
ingenious plan which happy Miss Threepenny promised to adopt. Robert ran
off and disappeared.
The alarming clang, clang, clang of a bell! Upon the instant, a swift
rushing to and fro; a throwing open of the door leading to the captain’s
room; boys with buckets of water hurrying up and forming in line; more
boys dragging long boa constrictors of leathern hose up to the doorway;
still more boys ready with brass nozzles to fix on; more boys again in a
tremendous state of excitement bearing scarlet extincteurs on their
backs; a white-capped, white-aproned cook up from below and assisting;
sharp commands from the officers; the old captain watching all with his
watch open. “Good,” says the captain of the _Westmouth_ presently, “very
good indeed. Who was the first bucket up, Mr. Waltham?” “Number Three
Fifty-Two, sir,” says the chief officer. “Three Fifty-Two,” thereupon
says the captain, “catch this sixpence.”
Band now at a corner of the upper deck, with a stout drum placed upon
trestles, to be whacked presently as though it had committed some gross
breach of discipline. Music-stands up; brass instruments tested; the
bandmaster taps his wooden stand sharply. Three hundred boys in
detachments on either side of the deck; first officer, with a voice
accustomed to open-air speaking, with the captain on the poop. A brief
drill, and then,—
“Form divisions!”
“Right about face!”
“March!”
The band plays; the two broad, close, moving detachments go steadily
around. A roar from the chief officer, and at once the broad masses
become a number of thin strands with a serpentine movement to a new and
more cheerful march from the band, and doing it with absolute accuracy
for several minutes. “Halt!” Music stops.
“Boys,” shouts the old captain from the poop, “very fair, very fair
indeed! Eh, Mr. Waltham?”
“Very fair indeed, sir.”
A selection made from the crowd; the rest jump up on the sides of the
ship, and become an audience. The selected boys stiffly in line, jackets
off, accept from a chief petty officer with a sack, pairs of wooden
dumb-bells. Order given, they face round, watching the instructor
narrowly and with seriousness. A signal from him and band having started
a gentle waltz, the two hundred sailor boys go through a movement of
thrusting the arms forward, withdrawing them sharply, keeping time ever
to the music. A change of air on the part of the band, and each pair of
arms swings from side to side. Another, and with clockwork preciseness
the bells are up high, return to touch breast, go down to toes. A whole
dozen of these changes, and amongst the later ones, movements with
definite stamp of the right foot on the deck to the music of a Scotch
reel. Pantomime rally from the band; a bugle call, and the deck is
clear.
“If I hadn’t seen it,” says astounded little Miss Threepenny to her two
neighbours, and standing now on the topmost stair of the foc’sle steps,
“I should never ’ave believed it true!”
“That’s nothing,” remarks one of the women, lightly. “You watch out now,
Miss. My Jimmy’s in the next.”
To a march from the obliging band, enter forty serious boys,
brown-legginged, belted, and bearing rifles. At the words of command,
these go through a number of offensive and defensive movements, forming
squares, performing cutlass drill, making lunges with their bayonetted
rifles at a supposititious enemy; killing this supposititious enemy and
withdrawing the bayonet neatly from his lifeless body. A good quarter of
an hour of hard drill this, for which they are more than repaid by
applause from the younger boys seated on the sides of the vessel, and a
word of approval from the captain:
“’Ere comes Bobbie,” cries Miss Threepenny, excitedly. “Oh, dear! oh,
dear! what will they be up to next?”
Mothers seated on the steps may well start and clutch each other’s arms,
for field guns are being dragged on now by straw-hatted detachments, and,
to a brisk air from the band, tugged by long ropes around and around the
deck.
“There he is,” cries Miss Threepenny, excitedly. “There he is again.
And there he is once more.”
No time for Robert to take notice of the little woman’s shrill comments,
even if the bustle allowed him to hear, for field guns are things that
demand attention jealously. An order pulls them up short; Robert with
eight other lads stopping their gun on the starboard side. Every boy
panting; every boy with his flushed face directed towards the chief
officer on the poop. A shrill whistle.
“Dismount!” shouts the chief officer.
Fierce attack on the guns, wheels off, axles unpinned, guns lifted,
remainder of carriage pulled to pieces, all down flat on the deck, boy
seated on them and looking up at the poop for comment.
“Fifteen seconds, Mr. Waltham.”
“Fifteen, sir,” says the chief officer respectfully; “fifteen as near as
a toucher.”
“They did it in less time last week, Mr. Waltham.”
“They did it in less time last week, sir,” replies the chief officer.
The old captain shakes his head first at the scarlet-faced lads seated on
the portions of their gun carriages and then at his watch, as though
inclined to blame the watch as much as the boys. The instructor goes
from one set of lads to another growling a word of advice.
“Re-mount!”
Every boy to his feet; the parts of the carriage seized; wheels held in
place and fixed; the heavy gun lifted and slung, carriage pushed forward
to catch it in position. Robert’s detachment, to their great annoyance
and confusion, find all their quick efforts retarded by the clumsiness of
Number Eight, who, having mistaken his duties, has come into collision
with another boy, and seems inclined to argue the matter out and prove
himself thoroughly in the wrong before anything further is done. At
least six seconds lost by this action on the part of Number Eight in
Robert Lancaster’s gun, so that the other five guns are all perfect and
their boys standing cool and serene, whilst the final struggle is being
concluded on the starboard side.
“I rather want that movement concluded to-day,” says the old captain,
leaning over and speaking ironically.
“What’s your number?” asks the instructor of the offending boy.
“Eight, sir.”
“Ah,” remarks the instructor, “it might as well be nought. Isn’t your
place there? Very well, then.”
“Try that again, boys,” cries the chief officer. “Do it sharper this
time. Think what you’re about.”
Thought and celerity and earnestness are all brought to bear on the next
dismounting, and Number Eight of Robert’s set, reserving justification
for his previous conduct, proves himself as able a seaman as the rest.
The remounting is performed with similar swiftness, and the old captain
lets the case of his watch close with a snap and says, leaning over the
rails again and addressing the boys on deck, “Very good, very good
indeed. Eh, Mr. Waltham?” “Very good indeed, sir,” agrees the chief
officer.
Fierce business coming now! The white-headed mops go down the nozzles of
the guns, come out again, the gunners stand clear, one lad jerks a
string, and—bang! White mop down again head first and withdrawn, gun
sighted, and again—bang! It being unusual for an attacking force to do
this dangerous work without casualty, half a dozen boys affect to receive
the fire of the unseen enemy and fall on deck screaming with great
anguish, “Oh, oh, oh!” and “’Elp, ’elp, ’elp!” to the great consternation
of one mother up near the foc’sle, who is with difficulty restrained from
rushing down the steps. Ambulance corps hurries forward; one wounded boy
has his trousers pulled up, his bared leg set between two pieces of wood
and tied up, a stretcher brought, and he is taken, now giving agonizing
groans, which have a fine suggestion of pathos, to the port side deck.
Other boys who have fallen victims to the non-existent enemy have their
arms placed in slings or their heads bandaged, and are led away by
sympathetic ambulance men.
“Sound for the march past, bugler.”
Band, which has been interested in this scene of carnage, snatches up its
instruments and starts a cheerful, brisk, trotting air; the boys take the
ropes and tug the guns on the field carriages once around the deck, the
wounded following in the rear and still giving realistic groans at every
other step, all disappearing at last through the large doors of the
foc’sle to the applause of boys seated on the sides and fluttering of
handkerchiefs from the foc’sle steps.
“Bray’vo, Bobbie,” cries little Miss Threepenny. She turns and whispers
apprehensively to the two women. “They’re none of ’em reelly ’urt, are
they?”
“’Urt?” echoes one of the two women. “They know better than go and get
’urt, bless you.”
“All the same,” says the little woman, “I wouldn’t join in it for forty
thousand million pound.”
The rifle lads again, faces set determinedly, marching up the deck with
steady and definite stride. Four movements, and they are down on one
knee preparing to receive the enemy. This time the enemy is no
fictitious enemy, for the doors of the foc’sle being thrown open, out
rush shrieking noisy warriors who from their language and the fact that
they are carrying long poles instead of firearms are clearly negro
aborigines of the district, and these shout “Alla-bulla-wulla” in a very
desperate way, throwing themselves on their opponents under the foolish
impression that something can be done to a solid square of British
sailors. A bugle call and the square rises, moves, and taking the
offensive, presses the mistaken aborigines back, but these still cry
“Alla-bulla-walla” (being apparently of a race with limited
conversational powers), and break up the detachment, so that a
hand-to-hand struggle ensues where every man carries his life in peril,
and every man remembers the country that gave him birth. The British are
pulled together again; they form by command into two lines, these two
lines stretching well across the field of operations press the enemy
slowly but determinedly back. Changing its tactics the enemy now shout,
“Wulla-bulla-alla,” but even this reversal of the original battle cry
proves useless, and the final struggle is stopped (because in point of
fact, one or two sets are beginning to fight in real earnest) by the
bugle call to retreat. Victory gained, the British sailors re-form, and
singing exultant music to—
“A life on the ocean wave,
A life on the stormy deep,
Where the billowy waters wave,
And the stars their vigil keep,”
they march round and pass the saluting point.
“Not at all bad,” says the captain. “Eh, Mr. Waltham? Considering.”
“Not at all bad, sir,” replies the chief officer, “considering.”
Robert escorted his little visitor down to tea, a few of his intimate
chums forming a circle around her in order to prevent the incursion of
mere curiosity. Miss Threepenny, finding herself the object and centre
of all this consideration, chattered away over her tea and bread and
butter, telling the circle a few of her best repartees, with many a “Oh,
I says,” and “What! she says”; each recital finishing triumphantly with
the sentence, “And that’s all they get for trying to score off me.” The
small woman being swung down to the lower deck, professed herself much
shocked at seeing the slung-up hammocks, declaring that eviction from her
model dwellings would ensue if this were known, and covering her face
with her tiny hands in a way that amused the lads very much. Before
leaving she ascertained the whereabouts of Robert’s locker, and finding
the white box with Robert’s number painted atop, slipped inside an
envelope containing a silver coin of enormous proportions. On the upper
deck again, Robert Lancaster feeling it politic to do everything possible
in order to give Miss Threepenny subject-matter for conversation on her
return to Trixie, went up to the foc’sle rigging to the foretop and was
down again before she had time to beg of him to be careful, following
this up by acts of a similarly perilous nature.
“How in the world I shall find breath enough to tell ’em all about you,”
she said distractedly, “goodness only knows.”
“Don’t forget to mention,” said Robert, “that I’m going to be made a
chief petty officer next week.”
“And how long did you say it’d be before you left?”
“I shan’t stay long,” he said importantly. “They want chaps in the Royal
Navy, and I’m five foot one already.”
“They ’ave made a man of you, Bobbie,” declared the little woman, looking
up at him admiringly. “Nobody’d think to look at you now that it was
only a few years ago you was nothing more or less than—”
“Just put your ’and on my arm,” interrupted Robert rather hastily.
“Above the elbow, I mean. Now then!” He drew his arm up slowly, and the
muscles stood out hard and rigid.
“You’re nothing more nor less,” said Miss Threepenny, “than what they
call in books a Herkools. And—and you’ve quite made up your mind to be a
sailor, Bobbie.”
“Of Her Majesty’s Navy,” said Bobbie proudly. “There’s the signal for
you to be off.”
The little woman having found her fishing net, now empty but for the
current number of “The Upper Ten Novelette,” went carefully. Her sailor
hat was slightly awry, and detecting this by a casual glance at some
polished brass, she adjusted it, and pulled her cape straight. The
circle of defending boys conducted her to the side of the ship; saw her
safely down the slippery gangway ladder to the gig.
“I shan’t kiss you, me dear,” she whispered to Robert, “because they’d
only guy you about it afterwards.”
“Give my love to ’em in Pimlico Walk,” said Robert shyly, as he lifted
her into the boat.
“I shall keep some of it for meself,” said the little woman archly. She
spoke to the officer at the stern of the boat. “Which side of the boat
shall I sit, mister?” The officer replied that it could not possibly
matter. “Oh, well,” she said resignedly, “if it overbalances don’t blame
me. Goo’ bye, Bobbie.”
“Goo’ bye,” cried Bobbie.
“Be a good boy,” called out the little woman in the rocking gig.
“A good what?”
“A good man, I mean,” she shouted apologetically.
“That’s better.”
“Don’t forget,” cried the little woman, putting one hand to the side of
her mouth—“oh, dear! how this boat does bob about—don’t forget that we
mean to be proud of you.”
“I shan’t forget,” he promised.
And, indeed, Robert Lancaster kept this in his memory.