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The Honour Of The Ship
by
Mild Mr. Harris removed his glasses. “Are you talking like that from force of habit?” he asked. “If so, I shall not be so much annoyed.”
The Schoolmaster was fairly taken aback. He stared for a moment and shifted his helm, so to speak, with a grin of intelligence and a short laugh.
“Not quite so bad as that, sir,” he remonstrated. “It’s–it’s–well, you may call it the atmosphere. On Speech-day the ship fairly reeks of it.”
“And, like the pork, eh! it’s just a little bit ‘off’?” suggested the visitor, returning his smile. “By the way, I want to ask you a question or two about a boy. His name is Link–Something-or-other.”
“Link Andrew?” The Schoolmaster gave him a quick look. “You don’t tell me he’s in trouble again? Not been annoying you, sir, I hope?”
“On the contrary, I’ve taken a fancy to the lad; and, by the way again, Link can’t be his real name?”
“Short for Abraham Lincoln, as baptised,” explained the Schoolmaster. “At least, that’s one theory. According to another it’s short for ‘Missing Link.’ Not that the boy’s bad-looking; but did you happen to notice the length of his arms–like a gorilla’s?”
“I could not avoid doing so.”
Mr. Harris related the incident.
“It was exceedingly kind of you, sir, to pass over his conduct so lightly. The fact is, if Link Andrew had been reported again he’d have lost his hammock in the yacht. We all want him to go; some to get rid of him for a spell, and others because we can’t help liking the boy. He hates us back, you bet, and has hated us from the moment he set foot on deck, five years ago . . . Whitechapel-reared, I believe. . . . Yet fond of the sea in his way. Once shipped on the yacht he’ll behave like an angel. But here on board he’s like a young beast in a trap.”
V.
Mr. Harris mooned away to the poop-deck, from the rail of which he watched the guests arriving. As Sir Felix’s gig was descried putting off from the shore, the boys swarmed up the ratlines and out on the yards, where they dressed ship very prettily. A brass band in the waist hailed his approach with the strains of “Rule, Britannia!” At the head of the accommodation-ladder a guard of honour welcomed him with a hastily rehearsed “Present Arms!” and the boys aloft accompanied it with three shrill British cheers. The dear old gentleman gazed up and around him, and positively beamed.
By this time a crowd of boats had put off, and soon the guests came pouring up the ladder in a steady stream. There were ladies in picture hats. A reporter stood by the gangway taking notes of their costumes. They fell to uttering the prettiest exclamations upon the shipshapeness of everything on board. Mr. Harris saw the First Officer inviting numbers of them to lean over the bulwarks and observe a scar the old ship had received–or so he alleged–at Trafalgar. “How interesting!” they cried.
Well, to be sure, it was interesting. Nelson himself–there was good authority for this at any rate–had once stood on the Egeria’s poop; had leaned, perhaps, against the very rail on which Mr. Harris’s hand rested. . . . And the function went off very well. The boys clambered down upon deck again, the band played–
“‘Tis a Fine Old English Gentleman,”
And all gathered about the awning. Sir Felix, nobly expansive in a buff waistcoat, cleared his throat and spoke of the Empire in a way calculated to bring tears to the eyes. The prize-giving followed.
As it proceeded, Mr. Harris stole down the poop-ladder and edged his way around the back of the crowd to the waist of the ship, where the boys were drawn up with a few officers interspersed to keep discipline. He arrived there just as Link Andrew returned from the dais with two books–the boxing and gymnasium prizes. The boy was foaming at the mouth.