"Will you take Sergeant-Instructor Jenkins on board for the purpose of adjusting compass?" read the coxswain.
Both boats slowed down on approaching, and rounded gunwale to gunwale. The Sergeant, a short, burly man, who looked what he was—a seaman ex-R.N., in spite of his khaki uniform—saluted, and stepped into No. 1164 B.
"Ready to carry on, sir?" he asked.
"Yes, carry on, Sergeant," replied Derek.
The N.C.O. bent down to unship the hood of the compass. As he did so the kitten scrambled upon his back and on to his shoulder. With a yell the Sergeant dropped the metal hood fairly on the top of the compass. The glass cracked, the compass tilted on its gimbals, and the liquid poured from the bowl.
"That's gone west, sir!" exclaimed the Sergeant apologetically. "Sorry, sir; it was that blessed cat. Can't stick cats at any price. Completely up-end me, they do."
It was evident that nothing further could be done in the matter of adjusting that compass. The N.C.O. was profuse in his regrets, but regrets were unable to repair the damaged instrument. Accordingly the coxswain was ordered to take the boat back into the harbour.
"Yes, sir," resumed the Sergeant. "Cats are my 'beatty nowhere', [1] as the Frenchies say. Can't stick 'em at any price," he reiterated. "Got disrated once over a party of cats."
"Eh?" exclaimed Derek incredulously.
"Fact, sir; it was in '97, when I was yeoman of signals on the Spondulux—third-class cruiser she was. We were lying off the west coast, with awnings rigged day and night, and all that sort o' thing, and perishing hot it was, too. Well, we had a cat on board, which was bad enough, but, to make matters worse, the cat had kittens. One night I was keeping the middle watch when I heard a most awful racket. You'll understand, sir, we had the poop awning set, and the dew had stretched it as tight as a drum. There was that cat and her kittens careering up and down the awning and playing all sorts of pranks. The skipper rings his bell, so down I goes to his cabin. 'What's that?' he asked, holding up his hand, as if I couldn't hear plain enough. 'Cats, sir,' says I. 'Stop it,' says he. Those being my orders I had to carry 'em out. So out I turned, creeping along the ridge-rope of that blessed awning trying to collar the furry brood, or, rather, to drive 'em for'ard, 'cause touching 'em always sends cold shivers down my back. I hadn't gone a couple of yards before the awning parted, and down I went through the hole smack upon the poop. The Bloke (Commander) comes tumbling up out of his cabin, swears I've been skylarking, and takes away my badges."