For you should know that never shall you meet us as before,
That none will take you by the hand or greet you as a friend;
So stay with it, and finish it—who brought about the War—
And when you've paid for all you've done—well, that will be the End.
THE "SPECIAL."
She was not new, and nobody could call her handsome. She was evidently more accustomed to rough weather than paint, and her sloping forecastle and low freeboard were old-fashioned, to say the least of them. She jogged slowly along, rolling to a short beam sea, with an apologetic air, as if she felt ashamed of being what she was—a pre-war torpedo-boat on local patrol duty.
She steered no particular course, and varied her speed capriciously as she beat up and down. Being in sight of the land—a grey, hard, low line to the westward—there was no need for accurate plotting of courses. On the bridge stood her Captain, a dark, lean, R.N.R. Lieutenant, pipe in mouth and hands in "lammy" pockets. The T.B. was rolling too much for any one to walk the tiny deck of the bridge; in fact, a landsman would have had difficulty in standing at all. He turned his head as his First Lieutenant swung up the little iron ladder behind him.
"What's for lunch?" he asked, carefully knocking out his pipe on the rail before him.
"The same," said his laconic subordinate, who was engaged in a rapid survey of the compass card, revolution indicator, and the horizon astern. The two stood side by side a moment looking out at the sea and sky to windward. "Any pickles?" said the Captain.
"No, only mustard."
The Captain sighed and turned to leave the bridge. The First Lieutenant pivoted suddenly—"It's better'n you and I had off the Horn in the Harvester. You'd 've been glad to get beef then, even if it was in a tin." He snorted, and turned forward again to look ahead. The Captain remained at the foot of the ladder, reading a signal handed to him by a waiting Boy Telegraphist. The argument on the subject of tinned beef had lasted a year already, and could be continued at leisure.