An irresistible impulse to sit down on something soft seized us, and, unabashed in the presence of all that gold braid confronting us, we were about to sink into their luxurious depths when his royal gazooks, with an imperious wave of his hand, bade us remain standing in his presence. It was really an awful break on our part—we should have waited for him to have invited his guests to take a seat, but we were so dazzled and dazed by the sudden transition from steerage to first that we were momentarily shy a few buttons on the niceties—and besides, we wanted to sit on a cushioned chair—we ached to sit on a cushioned chair, I'm telling you, but we didn't—I thought of Lal and stood.
It was up to me to stand—I was up for trial before the most absolute monarch in the world, the commander of a ship at sea.
He asked me my name, and I told him.
"You are charged with assaulting an officer in the discharge of his duty," he said. "What have you to say for yourself?"
And "Beef" came in
I told him the circumstances, "And, captain," I said, "that chap fell down mighty easy, and began to howl before he struck the deck."
The captain ordered the damaged steward to be produced.
The purser and "Beef" had him on tap, around the corner somewhere, and "Beef" led him in limping and sniveling.