“Our large rooms are constantly filled with soldiers, some chatting, some making up for past privations by having a good English meal, and others reading or playing games. Just now happens to be our quietest hour, but it won’t be long before we have a bustling scene.”
As if to verify the lady’s words there came through the doorways at that moment a sound of shouting and cheering, which caused all the staff of the Institute to start into active life.
“There they come!” exclaimed the lady, with an intelligent smile, as she hurried from the room, leaving Hardy to follow at a pace that was more consistent with his dignity—and, we may add, his physical weakness.
The shouts proceeded from a party of sailors on leave from one of the ironclads lying in the harbour. These, being out for the day—on a spree as some of them styled it—had hired donkeys, and come in a body to the Institute, where they knew that food of the best, dressed in British fashion, and familiar games, were to be had, along with British cheer and sympathy.
When Hardy reached the door he found the place swarming with blue-jackets, trooping up at intervals on various animals, but none on foot, save those who had fallen off their mounts and were trying to get on again.
“They’re all donkeyfied together,” remarked a sarcastic old salt—not one of the party—who stood beside Hardy, looking complacently on, and smoking his pipe.
“They don’t steer as well on land as on sea,” replied Hardy.
“’Cause they ain’t used to such craft, you see—that’s w’ere it is, sarjint,” said the old salt, removing his pipe for a moment. “Just look at ’em—some comin’ along sidewise like crabs, others stern foremost. W’y, there’s that grey craft wi’ the broad little man holdin’ on to its tail to prevent his slidin’ over its head. I’ve watched that grey craft for some minutes, and its hind propellers have bin so often in the air that it do seem as if it was walkin’ upon its front legs. Hallo! I was sure he’d go down by the head at last.”
The donkey in question had indeed gone down by the head, and rolled over, pitching its rider on his broad shoulders, which, however, seemed none the worse for the fall.
“Ketch hold of his tail, Bill,” cried another man, “and hold his stern down—see if that won’t cure his plungin’. He’s like a Dutchman in a cross sea.”