"Not 'arf," murmured the cynic at the end of the battleship's bridge.
He mused darkly and added, "I don't think."
The Yeoman of the Watch took the pad from the boy's hand, scribbled a
notation on it, and handed it back: "Commander an' Officer of the
Watch, Wardroom, Gunroom, an' Warrant Officers' Mess. Smart!"
The boy flung himself down the ladder, sped aft along the fore-and-aft
bridge, turned at the shelter-deck, descended another ladder, and
brought up in the battery. Here the Commander came in view, conferring
mysteriously with the Boatswain over a length of six-inch wire hawser
that lay along the upper deck. The Boatswain, with gloom in his
countenance, was indicating a section where the strands were flattened
and the hemp "heart" protruded in a manner indicating that all was not
well with the six-inch wire hawser. In fact, it rather resembled a
snake that had been run over. The Commander was rubbing his chin
thoughtfully.
The Signal-boy hovered on the outskirts of the conference. Bitter
experience in the past had taught him not to obtrude when deep called
thus to deep.
"We must cut it where it's nipped, and put a splice in it, Mr.
Cassidy," the Commander was saying, and turned his head.
The boy seized the opportunity to thrust the pad within range of the
Commander's vision, one eye cocked on his face to note the effect of
this momentous communication. He half expected that the Commander
would throw his cap in the air and shout "Hurrah!"
The Commander read it unmoved. "Show it to the Officer of the Watch,"
he said, and turned again to the wire hawser. Truly a man of iron,
reflected the Signal-boy as he saluted and ran aft in search of the
Officer of the Watch.
The Officer of the Watch received the intelligence with almost equal
unconcern, but when the boy had departed out of earshot he said
something in an undertone and added: "Just my blooming luck." Then,
raising his voice, he shouted: "Quartermaster! Picket-boat alongside
at three-thirty for officers."
A head emerged from the hood of the after turret. The Gunnery
Lieutenant, wearing over-alls, a streak of dirt running diagonally down
one cheek, emerged and drew off a greasy glove to wipe his face.
"Did I hear you say anything about a seven-bell boat?"
The Officer of the Watch nodded. "There's leave from three-thirty to
seven p.m. It's three o'clock now, so I advise you to smack it about
and clean if you're going ashore."
The Gunnery Lieutenant slid gracefully down the sloping shield of the
turret. Fortunately, the consideration of paint-work vanished with the
red dawn of August 5th, 1914.
"My word!" he said, staring towards the distant town. "My missus----"
and vanished down the hatchway.
In the meanwhile the Signal-boy had descended to the wardroom, where he
swiftly pinned the signal on to the notice board. The occupants of the
arm-chairs and settee followed his movements with drowsy interest.
The Young Doctor rose and walked to the notice board.
"Snooks!" he ejaculated. "Leave!" And, with a glance at the clock,
hurried out of the mess.
The remainder of his messmates sat up with excitement.
"What time?"
"When till?"
"What about a boat?"
The head of the Officer of the Watch appeared through the open skylight
overhead. "Wake up, you Weary Willies. There's a boat to the beach at
seven-bells."
"Come along, chaps," snorted the Major of Marines. "_Allons nous
shifter_--let us shift." And he, too, made tracks for his cabin,
followed by everybody who could be spared by "the exigencies of the
service" to experience for three blessed hours the joys of the land.
The shrill voices of the Midshipmen at their toilet in the after flat
proclaimed that the precious moments were flying. Three were
simultaneously performing their ablutions in one basin, the supply of
water to the bathroom having failed with a suddenness that could only
be attributed to the malignant agency of the Captain of the Hold.
Another burrowed feverishly in the depths of his sea-chest, presenting
to the flat much the same appearance as a terrier does when busy at a
rabbit-hole. He emerged flushed but triumphant with a limp garment in
his grasp. "I knew I had a clean shirt," he confided to his neighbour.
"I told my servant so a fortnight ago. He swore that every one I
possessed had been left behind in the wash at Malta."
His neighbour made no reply, being in the throes of buttoning a collar
which fitted him admirably at Osborne College, but which somehow had
lately exhibited an obstinate determination to meet no more round his
neck. However, physical strength achieved the miracle, and he breathed
deeply. "I shouldn't sweat to shift your shirt," he consoled. "It
looks all right. Turn the cuffs up."
"I've turned them up three times already," replied the excavator,
donning his find. "There are limits."
Another Midshipman came across the crowded flat and calmly rummaged in
the open till of the speaker's sea-chest. "Where's your hair juice?
All right, I've got it." He anointed himself generously with a
mysterious green fluid out of a bottle. "My people are staying at a
pub ashore here. Will you come and have tea, Jaggers? Kedgeree's
coming, too."
The owner of the green unguent, who was feverishly dusting his boots
with a pyjama jacket, signified his pleasure in accepting the
invitation.
The sentry on the aft-deck stepped to the head of the ladder with a
bellows, on the mouth of which a small fog-horn was fitted, and gave a
loud blast. It was the customary warning that the officers' boat would
be alongside in five minutes.
The Assistant Clerk ran distractedly for the ladder.
"There's one 'G'! Have I got time to borrow five bob from the messman
before the boat shoves off?"
"You might borrow five bob for me while you're about it," shouted a
belated Engineroom Watchkeeper, struggling into his clothes.
"And me, too," called another. "Buck up, for the Lord's sake, and
we'll have poached eggs for tea."
"And cherry jam," supplemented another visionary voluptuously, "and
radishes."
Here a figure, who had been sitting on the lid of his chest swinging
his legs, tilted his cap on to the back of his head with a snort that
suggested outlawry and defiance to the world at large.
"Hallo!" exclaimed a neighbour, wielding a clothes-brush with energy.
"What's up? Aren't you coming ashore? It isn't your First Dog, is it?"
The outlaw shook his head. "No; my leave's jambed. You know that
beastly six-inch wire hawser? We were bringing it to the after capstan
yesterday, and the Commander----"
The aft-deck sentry gave two blasts on his fog-horn. Chest lids
banged, keys rattled.
"Jolly rough luck!" commiserated his friend, and joined the stampede
for the quarterdeck.
In thirty seconds the flat was deserted save for the disconsolate
figure swinging his legs. Presently he climbed down from his chest and
wended his way by devious and stealthy routes to the after
conning-tower, where he smoked a surreptitious cigarette in defiance of
the King's Regulations and Admiralty Instructions (his age being
sixteen) and felt better.
In the meanwhile the picket-boat was driving her way shoreward with the
emancipated members of Wardroom and Gunroom clustered on top of the
cabin and in the stern sheets.
"Bunje," said the First Lieutenant, "come to the club and have tea and
play 'pills' afterwards?"
The Indiarubber Man shook his head. "No, thanks; I'm afraid I--I've
got something else to do."
The Paymaster contemplated him thoughtfully. "Bunje, my lad, the
darkest suspicions fill my breast. Wherefore these carefully creased
trousers, this liberal display of fine linen and flashing cuff-links
withal? Our Sunday monkey-jacket, too. Can it be----? No." He
appealed to the occupants of the stern sheets: "Don't tell me the lad
is going poodle-faking!"[1]
"His hands are warm and moist," confirmed one of the Watchkeepers. "He
wipes them furtively on the slack of his trousers in frightened
anticipation."