The speaker was a tall, neatly-dressed man, about thirty years old. He was smooth shaven, and his face was what would be called a strong one; strong for good, or perhaps for evil if led in a wrong way. Such a face betokened an impulsive, warm-hearted character. To Ralph the anguish of his face, and the trembling of his voice were most appealing.
“Poor fellow! I do hope Mr. Graham will let him go,” he observed to Creelton.
Lieutenant-Commander Graham looked fixedly at the man before him. There was no hope of kindness in his cold gray eyes. “Your name is Collins, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me see. Three weeks ago at Annapolis, while you were on the second conduct grade and not entitled to liberty, you brought a telegram to the mast which said: ‘Mother very low; come at once,’ did you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the captain let you go for three days and you took six.”
“Yes, sir, my mother lingered, my wife was taken sick then, I couldn’t leave; I telegraphed the captain for an extension but didn’t get it. I was sorry to break my liberty, sir, but when a man’s mother dies——” and Collins’ voice broke.
“Oh, yes, I know all about that, and in many years’ service I’ve invariably noticed that whenever an enlisted man comes to the mast with a telegram that his mother is dead he’s never on the first conduct grade; he’s always on the second, third or fourth grade. No, you can’t go. You were put in the fourth conduct grade for three months by my special advice to the captain. I’ve no use for liberty breakers, and you’re not going to work me, not a bit of it. No, you can’t go ashore, not for a minute. I advise you to tell your wife she’d better get sick only when you’re on the first conduct grade.”
Collins turned pale and his lips twitched.