“Pretty tidy, sir. Hadn’t much time, sir.”
“That’s all right. The best way with the British Public is to let them see what’s good for them, you know.... And, Reedham, just drop a hint to some of the snotties to—er—moderate their language a bit, and not to offer him too many drinks. It might create a bad impression. You can never tell with these writing chaps—even the most respectable of them.”
“I imagine,” said Mr. Alter slowly, as he and Reedham went down into the Chest Flat, “that the officer of the watch is also the officer in charge of midshipmen?”
“Yes,” Reedham answered, “he is. But what made you think so?”
The Gunroom had been transformed to greet the Almighty Pen and the gold-laced visitors who might be expected to accompany it. No one was asleep. There were no glasses on the table. Howdray was reading, in the second volume of a Manual of Seamanship, the eighty-seventh page—the page at which he had happened to open it. Elstone was working industriously, with a pen which he dipped from time to time into an empty Indian ink bottle, at a log-sketch which Dyce had completed for him a week ago.
The seemliness of the place was the seemliness of a schoolboy, who, being dressed for a midnight escapade, jumps into bed boots and all as he hears the master’s step near the dormitory door. The newspapers and magazines were thrust together into a pile, from which, as specimens of the whole, the title-pieces of Punch and the Morning Post had been made to protrude. The Winning Post, which was not hidden even for the Captain’s Sunday inspections, and La Vie Parisienne and Le Rire, which were decently covered on such occasions, were now not to be seen—unless the inquisitive eye perceived one of them poking out its thumbed edges from beneath the leather cushions of the settee. And on the pile’s summit, chosen to occupy so conspicuous a position by Krame’s quick spirit, lay the Hibbert Journal that Elstone had long ago received from a kinswoman who “thought, my dear, you might care to pass your long watches with some magazines,” and a copy of the Daily Chronicle, which had been hastily borrowed from Wickham, the messman, in case, as Krame remarked, old Alter had Radical tendencies.
“This is Mr. Wingfield Alter,” said Reedham. “He has come to see Lynwood and Fane-Herbert.”
“How d’you do?” said the senior midshipman. “My name is Krame. This is Elstone—Howdray—Driss. I’m afraid Fane-Herbert is ashore on leave, and won’t be back till dinner. Lynwood is in the Dockyard with the Engineer Commander. They were expected back before Quarters. They may be here at any moment now.... Will you sit down and wait?”
“Thanks.... There’s one thing, though.” He turned to Reedham. “Perhaps you would manage it for me? Would you ask the officer of the watch if I may go ashore in the officers’ boat, and if he says I may, will you pay off my boatman with this?”
Reedham took the money. After a moment’s hesitation, seeing no opportunity to convey Mr. Baring’s warning, and, indeed, feeling no inclination to do so, he went out of the Gunroom, not a little envious of those who might remain. It is exciting to see the Name that for years has stared at you from advertisements, and has twinkled at you from the gilt-lettered backs of books, come suddenly to life, take off its hat, put down its bag, and seat itself in your chair. The Name, by coming to life, assumes responsibility for many illusions.