Hornblower was leaning a little forward as he spoke; the hands which he clasped behind him served apparently to balance the jutting chin, but his attitude was negligent compared with the fierce intensity with which he spoke, even though he was speaking in an undertone inaudible to all except the three of them.
“Aye aye, sir,” said Hobbs, turning to go forward again.
Bush was making a mental note that this Hornblower was a firebrand when he met his glance and saw to his surprise a ghost of a twinkle in their melancholy depths. In a flash of insight he realised that this fierce young lieutenant was not fierce at all, and that the intensity with which he spoke was entirely assumed—it was almost as if Hornblower had been exercising himself in a foreign language.
“If they once start sulking you can’t do anything with’em,” explained Hornblower, “and Hobbs is the worst of ‘em—actinggunner, and no good. Lazy as they make ‘em.”
“I see,” said Bush.
The duplicity—play acting—of the young lieutenant aroused a momentary suspicion in Bush’s mind. A man who could assume an appearance of wrath and abandon it again with so much facility was not to be trusted. Then, with an inevitable reaction, the twinkle in the brown eyes called up a responsive twinkle in Bush’s frank blue eyes, and he felt a friendly impulse towards Hornblower, but Bush was innately cautious and checked the impulse at once, for there was a long voyage ahead of them and plenty of time for a more considered judgment. Meanwhile he was conscious of a keen scrutiny, and he could see that a question was imminent—and even Bush could guess what it would be. The next moment proved him right.
“What’s the date of your commission?” asked Hornblower.
“July ‘96,” said Bush.
“Thank you,” said Hornblower in a flat tone that conveyed so little information that Bush had to ask the question in his turn.
“What’s the date of yours?”