“Not at all! they’re hailing the rising sun,” she said—and explained: “They would do the same if he were a mummy or had small-pox. ‘Grease,’ they call it.” 130
(The watchword, in the Navy, is “grease.” From the moment you enter the Academy, as a plebe, until you have joined the lost souls on the retired list, you are diligently engaged in greasing every one who ranks you and in being greased by every one whom you rank. And the more assiduous and adroit you are at the greasing business, the more pleasant the life you lead. The man who ranks you can, when placed over you, make life a burden or a pleasure as his fancy and his disposition dictate. Consequently the “grease,” and the higher the rank the greater the “grease,” and the number of “greasers.”)
“Well-named!—dirty, smeary, contaminating business,” said Croyden. “And the best ‘greasers’ have the best places, I reckon. I prefer the unadorned garb of the civilian—and independence. I’ll permit those fellows to fight the battles and draw the rewards—they can do both very well.”
He did not get another dance with her until well toward the end—and would not then, if the lieutenant to whom it belonged had not been a second late—late enough to lose her.
“We are going back to Washington, in the morning,” she said. “Can’t you come along?”
“Impossible!” he answered. “Much as I’d like to do it.”
She looked up at him, quickly.
“Are you sure you would like to do it?” she asked. 131
“What a question!” he exclaimed.
“Geoffrey!—what is this business which keeps you here—in the East?”