It was an admiral of a great navy returning a call, and hundreds of bluejackets were peeking out from the superstructure.
"Here he comes—spot me Lord Admiral, fellows!"
"Three ruffles of the drum, three pipes o' the boson's whistle——"
"—six boys an' thirteen guns——"
"—and he swellin' out like an eight-inch sponson comin' over the side, as if it was himself and not his job the guns are for!"
Young apprentice boys' voices those.
There came an older voice: "You kids talk as if it was in admirals and at sea alone. And ashore any day are bank presidents, head floor-walkers, chairmen of reception committees—yes, and bishops of the church—any of them on their great days stepping high to the salutations, as if 'twas something they had done, and not the uniform or the robe or the job they held."
Carlin had a look at the owner of the voice. Later he hunted up Trench—Lieutenant Trench—and to him he said: "Glory to the man who can wear his uniform without tempering hot convictions or coining free speech to the bureaucratic mint! But greater glory to the man who can divest high office of its shining robes and see only the man beneath. Who's your big, rangy gunner's mate with the gray-flecked, thick black hair and what the apprentice boys call go-to-hell eyes?"
"That's easy—Killorin."
"And what's his history?"