This worthy, I noticed, looked quite smart and seaman-like in the dungaree suit he had purchased from Mrs Poll Nash, the bumboat woman, which his messmates had taught him to rig up in proper man-o’-war fashion, the good-hearted chaps also supplying whatever other necessaries were required for his wardrobe, such as the black silk handkerchief, tied in a loose knot round his neck, and the knife and lanyard without which no bluejacket’s toilet is complete.
The men were drawn up in line, two deep, in open order, ready for inspection, and the captain and commander were just about descending from the poop to go round the ranks; when, up came the Reverend Mr Smythe on the quarter-deck in his complete clerical regalia, only now with his college cap on, which, when I had seen him before by the main hatchway, he had carried in his hand.
He now raised this in salute to the captain and then immediately replaced it, seeing that none of us were uncovered, all of us having our caps on of course, being in uniform.
Captain Farmer only gave the regulation touch to the peak of his in return for the chaplain’s courtesy.
“Well, sir,” said Captain Farmer in his direct way, as Mr Smythe struggled to speak, feeling that the eyes of all hands were upon him, blushing a rosy red up to the roots of his sandy hair, “what is it?”
“Am I—ah—to begin now, sir,” he stammered; “or, wa—wa—wait till the bell rings again, sir?”
“Bell rings!” repeated the captain, abruptly. “For what, sir?”
“For service, sir.”
“Service?” said Captain Farmer, in a questioning tone still. “I’ve given no orders about any service to-day. There’s no time for it now. We’re going to weigh anchor in another minute or two.”
“Weigh the anchor, sir!” exclaimed Mr Smythe, in a voice of holy indignation, losing all his hesitancy and awkwardness of speech. “Why, it is Sunday!”