The other made a little upward gesture with his elbow and gave a laugh of pleasant retrospection. "'Strewth!" he supplemented. "Wasn't 'arf blind, neither," implying that when last ashore he had looked upon the cup when it was very ruddy indeed.
At the screen door to the quarter-deck he overtook a companion in misfortune en route to "toe pitch." This was a frightened Second-class Stoker, harried aft by one of the Ship's Police at the shambling gait officially recognised as the "steady double." Together they saluted and stepped on to the quarter-deck, where, already standing between his escort, a sullen-eyed deserter, captured the previous day, scowled into vacancy. The new-comers took their places in the melancholy line, stood easy, and commenced to preen themselves furtively, after the manner of sailors about to come under the direct eye of authority. Then the Captain's Clerk arrived with a bundle of papers in his hand.
"All ready, Master-at-Arms?"
"All ready, sir." The iron-visaged Chief of Police saluted and went to report to the Commander. The Commander ran his eye over the defaulter-sheet and, entering the Captain's cabin, disappeared from view. For a minute a hush settled over the group as silently they awaited the coming of the man who, to them, represented all that was Omnipotent upon earth. The breeze led the shadow of the White Ensign a fantastic dance across the spotless planking, and rustled the papers on the baize-covered table. Overhead a gull soared, screaming at intervals, and then swooped suddenly to the water. The owner of the cherished curl, who was what is technically known in the Service as a "bird," sucked his teeth thoughtfully and speculated as to the probable extent of his punishment. The Second-class Stoker fallen-in beside him, who had broken his leave twenty-four hours, and apparently expected to be executed, suddenly sniffled and was reproved in an undertone by the Master-at-Arms. "'Old yer row!" said that dignitary. Then, raising his voice, he shouted, "'Faulters, 'Shun!"
The Captain's Clerk, who had been abstractedly watching the sea-gull's antics and thinking about trout-fishing, came to earth with a start: the waiting group stiffened to attention and saluted. The Captain walked to the table and picked up the charge-sheet.
'"Erbert 'Awkins!" snapped the Master-at-Arms. "Off cap. Absenover leave twenty-four hours, sir."
The Second-class Stoker stepped forward; it was his first offence in the Service, and the Adam's-apple in his throat worked like a piston. Suddenly recollecting, he snatched off his cap and stood, moistening dry lips.
"How long has this man been in the Service?" asked the Captain, grave eyes on the delinquent's face.
"Four months, sir," replied his Clerk.
Then to the culprit: "Why did you break your leave?" The lad shook his head in obstinate silence. As a matter of fact, he had broken it because a glib-tongued slut ashore kept him too drunk to return till he was penniless. But what was the use of telling all that to a Being with four gold rings on his sleeve, and grey eyes like gimlets in the shadow of the cap-peak. He wouldn't understand how desperately bad the liquor had been, and the way the women talked...