Past the towering bows of future battleships he led me, over and under more steel cables, until he paused to point towards an empty slip near by.
"That's where we built the Lusitania!" said he. "We thought she was pretty big then—but now—!" he settled his hat a little further over one eye with a knock on the crown.
"Poor old Lusitania!" said I, "she'll never be forgotten."
"Not while ships sail!" he answered, squaring his square jaw, "no, she'll never be forgotten, nor the murderers who ended her!"
"And they've struck a medal in commemoration," said I.
"Medal!" said he, and blew his nose louder than before. "I fancy they'll wish they could swallow that damn medal, one day. Poor old Lusitania! You lose anyone aboard?"
"I had some American friends aboard, but they escaped, thank God—others weren't so fortunate."
"No," he answered, turning away, "but America got quite angry—wrote a note, remember? Over there's one of the latest submarines, Germany can't touch her for speed and size, and better than that, she's got rat-tat—"
"I beg pardon?" I wailed, for the hammers were riotous again, "what has she?"