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“‘It’s beyond me,’ says the owner. ‘There was general instructions for an execution, but I never knew I had such a dependable push of mountebanks aboard,’ he says. ‘I’m all cold up my back, still.’

“The Marines carried the corpse below. Then the bugle give us some more ‘Dead March,’ Then we ‘eard a splash from a bow six-pounder port, an’ the bugle struck up a cheerful tune. The whole lower deck was complimentin’ Glass, ‘oo took it very meek. ‘E is a good actor, for all ‘e’s a leatherneck.

“‘Now,’ said the old man, ‘we must turn over Antonio. He’s in what I have ‘eard called one perspirin’ funk.’

“Of course, I’m tellin’ it slow, but it all ‘appened much quicker. We run down our trampo–without o’ course informin’ Antonio of ‘is ‘appy destiny –an’ inquired of ‘er if she had any use for a free and gratis stowaway. Oh, yes? she said she’d be highly grateful, but she seemed a shade puzzled at our generosity, as you might put it, an’ we lay by till she lowered a boat. Then Antonio–who was un’appy, distinctly un’appy–was politely requested to navigate elsewhere, which I don’t think he looked for. ‘Op was deputed to convey the information, an’ ‘Op got in one sixteen-inch kick which ‘oisted ‘im all up the ladder. ‘Op ain’t really vindictive, an’ ‘e’s fond of the French, especially the women, but his chances o’ kicking lootenants was like the cartridge–reduced to a minimum.

“The boat ‘adn’t more than shoved off before a change, as you might say, came o’er the spirit of our dream. The old man says, like Elphinstone an’ Bruce in the Portsmouth election when I was a boy: ‘Gentlemen,’ he says, ‘for gentlemen you have shown yourselves to be–from the bottom of my heart I thank you. The status an’ position of our late lamented shipmate made it obligate,’ ‘e says, ‘to take certain steps not strictly included in the regulations. An’ nobly,’ says ‘e, ‘have you assisted me. Now,’ ‘e says, ‘you hold the false and felonious reputation of bein’ the smartest ship in the Service. Pigsties,’ ‘e says,’ is plane trigonometry alongside our present disgustin’ state. Efface the effects of this indecent orgy,’ he says. ‘Jump, you lop-eared, flat-footed, butter-backed Amalekites! Dig out, you briny-eyed beggars!'”

“Do captains talk like that in the Navy, Mr. Pyecroft?” I asked.

“I’ve told you once I only give the grist of his arguments. The Bosun’s mate translates it to the lower deck, as you may put it, and the lower deck springs smartly to attention. It took us half the night ‘fore we got ‘er anyway ship-shape; but by sunrise she was beautiful as ever, and we resoomed. I’ve thought it over a lot since; yes, an’ I’ve thought a lot of Antonio trimmin’ coal in that tramp’s bunkers. ‘E must ‘ave been highly surprised. Wasn’t he?”

“He was, Mr. Pyecroft,” I responded. “But now we’re talking of it, weren’t you all a little surprised?”

“It come as a pleasant relief to the regular routine,” said Mr. Pyecroft. “We appreciated it as an easy way o’ workin’ for your country. But–the old man was right–a week o’ similar manoeuvres would ‘ave knocked our moral double-bottoms bung out. Now, couldn’t you oblige with Antonio’s account of Glass’s execution?”

I obliged for nearly ten minutes. It was at best but a feeble rendering of M. de C.’s magnificent prose, through which the soul of the poet, the eye of the mariner, and the heart of the patriot bore magnificent accord. His account of his descent from the side of the “infamous vessel consecrated to blood” in the “vast and gathering dusk of the trembling ocean” could only be matched by his description of the dishonoured hammock sinking unnoticed through the depths, while, above, the bugler played music “of an indefinable brutality”

“By the way, what did the bugler play after Glass’s funeral?” I asked.

“Him? Oh! ‘e played ‘The Strict Q.T.’ It’s a very old song. We ‘ad it in Fratton nearly fifteen years back,” said Mr. Pyecroft sleepily.

I stirred the sugar dregs in my glass. Suddenly entered armed men, wet and discourteous, Tom Wessels smiling nervously in the background.

“Where is that–minutely particularised person–Glass?” said the sergeant of the picket.

“‘Ere!” The marine rose to the strictest of attentions. “An’ it’s no good smelling of my breath, because I’m strictly an’ ruinously sober.”

“Oh! An’ what may you have been doin’ with yourself?”

“Listenin’ to tracts. You can look! I’ve had the evenin’ of my little life. Lead on to the Cornucopia’s midmost dunjing cell. There’s a crowd of brass-‘atted blighters there which will say I’ve been absent without leaf. Never mind. I forgive them before’and. The evenin’ of my life, an’ please don’t forget it.” Then in a tone of most ingratiating apology to me: “I soaked it all in be’ind my shut eyes. ‘I’m”–he jerked a contemptuous thumb towards Mr. Pyecroft–“‘e’s a flatfoot, a indigo-blue matlow. ‘E never saw the fun from first to last. A mournful beggar–most depressin’.” Private Glass departed, leaning heavily on the escort’s arm.

Mr. Pyecroft wrinkled his brows in thought–the profound and far-reaching meditation that follows five glasses of hot whisky-and-water.

“Well, I don’t see anything comical–greatly–except here an’ there. Specially about those redooced charges in the guns. Do you see anything funny in it?”

There was that in his eye which warned me the night was too wet for argument.

“No, Mr. Pyecroft, I don’t,” I replied. “It was a beautiful tale, and I thank you very much.”