Ship's concerts are given in aid of the seamen's orphans and widows,
and, after one has been present at a few of them, one seems to feel
that any right-thinking orphan or widow would rather jog along and take
a chance of starvation than be the innocent cause of such things. They
open with a long speech from the master of the ceremonies--so long, as
a rule, that it is only the thought of what is going to happen
afterwards that enables the audience to bear it with fortitude. This
done, the amateur talent is unleashed, and the grim work begins.
It was not till after the all too brief intermission for rest and
recuperation that the newly formed team of Marlowe and Hignett was
scheduled to appear. Previous to this there had been dark deeds done in
the quiet saloon. The lecturer on deep-sea fish had fulfilled his
threat and spoken at great length on a subject which, treated by a
master of oratory, would have palled on the audience after ten or
fifteen minutes; and at the end of fifteen minutes this speaker had only
just got past the haddocks and was feeling his way tentatively through
the shrimps. 'The Rosary' had been sung and there was an uneasy doubt
as to whether it was not going to be sung again after the interval--the
latest rumour being that the second of the rival lady singers had proved
adamant to all appeals and intended to fight the thing out on the lines
she had originally chosen if they put her in irons.
A young man recited 'Gunga Din' and, wilfully misinterpreting the
gratitude of the audience that it was over for a desire for more, had
followed it with 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy.' His sister--these things run in
families--had sung 'My Little Gray Home in the West'--rather sombrely,
for she had wanted to sing the 'Rosary,' and, with the same obtuseness
which characterised her brother, had come back and rendered two
plantation songs. The audience was now examining its programmes in the
interval of silence in order to ascertain the duration of the sentence
still remaining unexpired.
It was shocked to read the following: