At that moment the ship's siren gave a terrific blast. It was the signal that Neptune's cortège had been sighted by the look out for'ard.
The fo'c'sle and foremost shrouds were packed with eagerly gesticulating lascars; native firemen squatted on the decks on either side of the tank, and clung like flies to the stanchion-rails. On the promenade deck all available camp-chairs had been pressed into service and were occupied by excited passengers, trying to keep cool in vain, in spite of the double awnings.
Presently Captain Bullock, resplendent in white tropical uniform with gilt buttons and shoulder-straps, descended from the bridge and took up a position in the centre of the front row of crowded deck-chairs.
"Ahoy!" roared a deep voice for'ard. "What ship is that?"
"The S.S. West Barbican, of and from London," bawled the Old Man in reply.
"Then harkee, Skipper. Father Neptune demands entrance and the honour due to his exalted rank."
"Come aboard, sir," rejoined the Old Man.
Heralded by a fanfare from hand fog-horns, and a terrific din from a variety of metal implements, begged, borrowed, or stolen from the galley, Father Neptune appeared not exactly over but close to the bows. Brandishing his trident he bellowed a nautical greeting, and proceeded to assist his Queen through the limited space of the hatchway. It was soon evident that the lady was in difficulties and a plainly audible, "Steady on, old man," delivered in a very masculine voice, had the effect of raising a boisterous chorus of laughter from the sightseers.
Amphitrite, disentangled from the embraces of a catch on the hatch-cover, appeared in her lord's wake, but the effect of her flowing locks of golden hair and her deeply rouged face were somewhat marred by the display of a pair of unmistakably masculine hands and feet.
The doctor and the barber next struggled for publicity, each questioning the other's right of precedence, with the result that each contrived to get his head through the hatchway and no farther.