"You owe a little to me," answered the Parson, "more to Kit here, and most, if I may say so, to my sweet lady."
"Polly!" cried Nelson—"Pretty Miss Kiss-me-quick!"
"Ah," said the Parson, touched. "You don't forget old friends, Nelson. Nor does she. My love," he murmured, bending, "you remember Captain Nelson of the Agamemnon, who was good enough to second us in some of our little affairs in Corsica? Lord Nelson—Miss Kiss-me-quick. She says," he continued, drawing himself up, "that she'll permit the Victor of the Nile to salute her on the cheek."
He held the blade before him with a bow.
Nelson swept off his cocked hat.
"I am honoured indeed," he said, and, standing on the poop before them all, kissed the point.
Kit looked on with tender eyes. He was touched, and not at all surprised, to find that great men too loved solemn make-believe. The vision of the Eternal Child rose before his eyes once more: that Child who is never far in any of us, and least of all in the world's mighty ones.
Nelson turned to the Parson anxiously.
"But, Harry, are you wounded?"
"Mortally," the other answered—"by your beastly sea. But this is better," stamping the deck. "This is more like land."