I suppose that Mr Reardon thought better of his threat, or probably he
came to the conclusion that the expectation of punishment would prove as
effective as the punishment itself. At all events nothing was said, and
the routine of the ship went on as usual. The decks were scrubbed, the
guns polished, and the marines drilled, till, as Barkins said, they
could walk up to the top of a ladder and down the other side without
touching.
The Jacks, too, had their gun drill and sword exercise, till their
cutlasses flashed about with an exactness that promised to shave a head
without cutting off an ear--promised: the performance might have been
another thing.
As soon as I had an opportunity I started to go below and see Ching, but
before I was half-way there I ran against Smith.
"Where are you going in such a hurry?"
"To see how Ching's getting on."
"Did you put on a clean shirt?"
"No," I said innocently. "I can't stand one every day."
"Oh, come, this won't do!" cried Smith. "Here, hi, Barkins!"
"What's the row?" said our messmate, coming up.
"Row enough. Look here, this won't do. The Gnat's going below to see
His Excellency Ching Baron fancee shop, and Knight of the Tow-chang,
without putting on a clean shirt."
"Go and report him to the captain. Why, worse and worse, he hasn't
shaved!"
"No, that he hasn't."
"Well, I haven't got any razors like you fellows have," I retorted. "I
say, Tanner, have you stropped yours up lately? Smithy's are getting
rusty with the sea air."
"You're getting rusty with the sea air," grumbled Smith, who was very
proud of the possession of a pair of razors with Sunday and Monday
etched on the blades. He had once or twice shown them to me, saying
that they were a present from his father, who was going to leave him the
other five, which completed the days of the week, in his will.