But Mr. Alter, seated in the chair Krame had offered him, and explaining that he had had tea and would not have a whisky-and-soda just at present, was not conscious of being an idol, good or bad, or of being responsible, however indirectly, for another’s self-respect. He wondered, with a puckering of his eyes, whether he were wiser to apologize for having disturbed his hosts, or to pretend that, within his experience at any rate, midshipmen had always sat, during the dog watches, in Gunrooms tidy almost to primness, reading Manuals of Seamanship. It would be pleasant if they would all go to sleep again and not worry about him. He was an old man, he thought, forgetting to count his three-and-fifty years, an old man and a restraining presence. He had broken in upon an hour peculiarly their own. He felt a nuisance, in fact, as age so often feels in the presence of youth, and did not realize that youth, in this instance, was tremendously interested in him. And so, while he hesitated, and while their tongues were momentarily paralyzed by the thought of his great works and of the thousands of words they contained—all wiser, no doubt, than any they could speak—a little wall of silence grew up, over which, so soon as he perceived it, Mr. Alter leaped at a venture.
“Wondering about that bag of mine?” he demanded. “Others have wondered. Feel its weight—books and papers. I brought them here for Lynwood, who is a friend of mine, and they shall revert to the Gunroom when he has done with them. Do you read much?”
“Nothing very solid, I’m afraid,” said Krame.
“But these aren’t solid—at least, I hope not. Some of them are my own. Now, I wonder if you could find time to read one or two of them—the naval ones, for instance?”
“I think we have all read those time and again,” said Krame.
Mr. Alter smiled—pleased as he could never now be pleased by a column in a newspaper. “I’d dearly love to have your criticism, if ever you care to go over any of them again. My publisher’s address will always find me. Look, here’s The Lower Deck. That was an early effort.”
Howdray turned it over.
“Are you going to write another book about the Service, sir—the Service as it is now?”
“I don’t know. It attracts me as the impossible always attracts. I shall never get the essence of it though. Of course, it is not necessary as a general rule to live a life in order to describe it. But still....”