"Thank the Lord," murmured the A.P.
* * * * *
On the quarter-deck, facing aft, the ship's company were mustered: seamen, stokers, artisans, cooks, and police, one after another, as their names were called by the A.P., stepped briskly up to the pay table, where the Captain and the Commander stood, scooped their wages into their caps and hurried away. The Marines followed, receiving their pay in their hands, with a click of the heels and a swinging salute.
At the break of the forecastle an Ordinary Seaman stood regarding a few silver coins in his grimy palm. Having broken his leave during the month and been awarded cells in consequence, he had received considerably less pay than usual—a penalty he had not foreseen and did not understand.
"Bloomin' tizzy-snatcher," he muttered, slipping the coins into his trousers-pocket.
He referred to the A.P.
XIV.
"C/O G.P.O."
The bell above the door of the village post-office tinkled and the Postmistress looked up over her spectacles.
"Is it yourself, Biddy?"