“All right,” replied the gentleman addressed, saluting the instructor in his turn; the politeness and courteous deference paid on board all ships belonging to Her Majesty’s Service from one officer to another, be his rank high or low, being one of the best lessons in manners that man or boy could have afloat or ashore, especially the latter. “Carry on!”
Permission, accordingly, being granted for the ordeal to which we were about to be subjected, the smart seaman-instructor came back to where we were drawn up in single file forwards.
“Now, my lads,” he said, “you haven’t any of you passed through your sea baptism yet, I think. Ever been up aloft, eh?”
He had stopped in front of ‘Ugly,’ whose face yet bore traces of our recent combat, although the cuts on his lip and nose had healed up; and, indeed, I couldn’t well boast, for one of my eyes had a singularly picturesque greeny-yellowy look still about it.
“Hoi?” exclaimed ‘Ugly,’ in his yokel fashion. “I dunno wot yer means, zur.”
“Well, I’ll soon tell you,” rejoined the instructor. “I mean, have you ever been over the masthead?”
“No–a,” said ‘Ugly,’ staring sheepishly at him; and then, as he followed his questioner’s eye, on it glancing up aloft, he added, “Doos yer mean oop there, zur?”
“Aye.”
“No–a, zur.”
“Then, you’ll have to go up now,” said the instructor, in a tone that showed he intended to be obeyed. “Lads, attention!”