Kit took his post at the dormer. The other slipped off his coat.
"I'm not much of a Parson as you may have found out," he muttered, "still I am an Englishman." And he plumped down on his knees defiantly.
His was a very short and simple prayer; the prayer tens of thousands of Englishmen were praying from their hearts at that time.
Kneeling in his shirt, Polly shining before him against the wall, he repeated it most earnestly.
The whispered words, so simple and heart-felt, reached the ears of the boy at the dormer.
"God bless our dear country; and God d—- the French."
The waters of laughter came roaring up the boy's throat, and surged over, irresistible.
The Parson rose from his knees, and scowled at the lad's shaking shoulders.
"I suppose they're too proud to pray in his Service," he sneered. "Pack o pirates!" He took off his coat and folded it with thumps. "Yet I know one sailor who's not above paying his respects to his Maker—and that's Lord Nelson, of whom you may have heard. Seen him myself in the trenches at Calvi. I remember a great buck of a Dragoon Guardsman asking him,
"'Why d'you pray, little man?' 'Why,' says Nelson, simple as a child, 'because mother taught me.' Yes, sir," fiercely, "and that's why I pray—and jolly good reason too."