For a while—a very little while—he defied it, as he had defied impassive policemen in guttersnipe days, with shrill, meaningless obscenities. Then he strove to elude it, and was clouted grievously by O'Leary, the brawny Chief Stoker, in that he had skulked from his lawfully appointed task. He had meant to drop a fire-bar on O'Leary's head for that, but hadn't the courage requisite for murder. Because of his dirty habits and an innate habit for acquiring other men's gear, he was not beloved of his messmates; and to be unpopular on the mess-deck of a man-of-war means that the sooner you seek another walk of life the better. He strove to seek it, accordingly, burrowing back into the teeming slum-life of yore, until one night, in the flare of a hawker's barrow, a policeman's hand closed upon his collar.
"... I think there's time. I believe we'll make a man of you yet. I'll deal with you by warrant."
The escort swung him on his heel.
The Captain glanced again at the charge-sheet and thence to the third culprit before him.
"You were drunk on leave?"
"No, sir."
"But the Officer of the Patrol and the Officer of the Watch and the Surgeon all say you were drunk."
The "bird" sighed deeply. "I 'adn't 'ad no more'n a drop, sir——" he began.
"Deprived of one day's pay," interrupted the Captain; "and get your hair cut."
"'Air cut—forfeit one day's pay," echoed the Master-at-Arms. "Hon cap; 'bout turn, quick march!"