“Good luck t’ee, sir,” said the old sailor, and, as the boy turned towards the hotel, he added under his breath: “And Gawd ’elp ’ee.”
Lynwood heard, and looked over his shoulder. Then he pulled himself together, gave his instructions to the hall-porter and walked quickly into a ground-floor sitting-room, to the door of which was attached a temporary notice written in blue chalk:
REEVE & CO.
Mr. Reeve, though he had never held a commission, was one of the great personalities of the Navy. He described himself as a tailor and outfitter, but he was more than that. He had taken charge of Lynwood—as of almost all cadets—from the beginning of his career. From Mr. Reeve’s descriptive pamphlet Lynwood and his father had drawn their first ideas of life at Osborne, at Dartmouth, and at sea. A telegram signed Reeve had told of success in the entrance examination long before any official intimation had been received. Reeve had advised as to equipment, and had provided it. Reeve had been on the Portsmouth jetty to explain the intricacies of a strange uniform on that great day when seventy new cadets were inspected by an admiral before they crossed the Solent to Osborne and their destiny. Nothing seemed outside Mr. Reeve’s scope. He had made himself responsible for the transport of the great sea-chests from Osborne to Dartmouth, and from Dartmouth to the training cruiser. He had laboured exceedingly in things large and small, and had prospered exceedingly. And now, here was his representative, again in charge of the sea-chests and the luggage, prepared to aid his charges as they entered upon the next great stage of their careers. A room had been taken and a placard attached to the door. Within was Mr. Binney, “Reeve’s man,” helping the midshipmen to change the plain clothes in which they had travelled for the Number One uniform, with dirks, in which they were to join their ship. Mr. Binney unpacked and repacked their bags for them. He undertook the sending of telegrams for things forgotten. He answered innumerable questions, and, with an odd sympathy which showed he knew they had cares enough, promised to have their luggage taken to the landing stage at which the King Arthur’s boat would call. Certainly, sir, the luggage would be there in plenty of time. Where were the sea-chests? Already, as if by a miracle, they were at the head of the steps. In the rain? Yes, but they would come to no harm. Had all the young gentlemen got the keys of their sea-chests? It would be awkward to arrive on board and not be able to open them. In case any young gentleman had forgotten or should lose his key, he had a skeleton which would open any chest. Perhaps they would not mind sharing it?... Yes, he had heard that the King Arthur’s captain was a very good captain; and the rear-admiral—of course, everyone knew that he was one of the coming men: not that the captain or the admiral would make much difference to them.... Before long they would have to coal ship....
Mr. Binney had remarkable information. Moreover, he talked and made discreet jokes to such effect that silences, in which there might have been time to think, were pleasantly avoided.... Was it true that Mr. Reeve had a son who was going to enter the Service? Ah! that he didn’t know. Was the sub of the King Arthur a good fellow? That he couldn’t say. Mr. Binney knew exactly what things he ought to know and say. Personalities—save in a complimentary context—were to him an abomination.
Lynwood found that he was absurdly sorry for Mr. Binney—so eager, so capable, so warm-hearted a man and yet a tailor’s assistant! What, in the terms of this world, was his reward for all these excellencies? Lynwood pictured the little man’s family, the boy for whose education he had saved, the girl for whose happy marriage he was already laying plans. What were Mr. Binney’s castles in the air? He was too good a man to have none.... Then Lynwood’s thoughts shifted abruptly. He became envious of Mr. Binney, who would not have to go into that bleak ship, who would return comfortably to London—though it were in a third-class compartment—who would dine that evening among friends, who would sleep that night, not in a strange hammock, but in a familiar bed. Mr. Binney’s future was at least certain. Lynwood glanced at his kindly eyes. He saw the beads of perspiration which much stooping had produced upon his red forehead. Mr. Binney was tired, very tired.
Three other midshipmen—Sentley, Cunwell, and Fane-Herbert—were in the room when Lynwood arrived. He knew them all intimately, for they had served their training as cadets in his term. Sentley was small, dark, and a little pompous in manner. An unimaginative conscientiousness was written plainly on his face. Cunwell was of a heavier type, square headed, square bodied, and coarse skinned. He had loose lips that were usually wet, and self-assurance that was aggressive. He possessed, however, a certain force, not of intellect—for his flat, almost concave, forehead proclaimed his stupidity—but of personality, a personality impervious to satire. It was not his habit to think more deeply than mere physical action demanded. He was neither an observer of himself nor an analyst of others. To him nothing was a symbol, everything a fact. He treated the mind with suspicious hostility, as if it derived its strength from witchcraft and the evil powers. Mental capacity seemed to him no more than an unfair advantage over himself exercised by others in examination-rooms, and he did not allow himself to be troubled by his own deficiency in this respect. He brushed it aside characteristically. “You brainy fellows will soon learn that exams don’t count for much.”
In Fane-Herbert the effect of good breeding was conspicuous. When he smiled, his small white teeth and dancing eyes could not fail to cast a spell. In anger he became cold and aloof, refusing the easy relief of passion. He faced injustice and humiliation with an air of scornful pride which served him ill by irritating his oppressors. Intellectually he was unremarkable; but he was expert in all physical exercises that required quickness of eye and subtlety of wrist rather than force and speed. His whole manner was slow, almost languid. His reserve was not easily pierced, and only to his most intimate friends would he speak of himself. Upon the rest of the world he looked calmly, seeming scarcely to expect that others would be interested in him. Lynwood knew him well, liked him well, admired him for a dozen qualities; but he felt that in Fane-Herbert there was an element, not deliberately concealed, which was, however, never fully in the light of day, and therefore not entirely comprehensible.
“How did you get here?” Sentley asked. “You weren’t in our train, Lynwood?”
“No, I came across country—not from London.”