“He’s a what?” demanded the Orchid Hunter. He had been patriotically celebrating the arrival of the American Squadron. During tiffin, the sight of the white uniforms in the hotel dining-room had increased his patriotism; and after tiffin the departure of the Pacific Mail, carrying to the Golden Gate so many “good fellows,” further aroused it. Until the night before, in the billiard-room, he had never met any of the good fellows; but the thought that he might never see them again now depressed him. And the tea he was drinking neither cheered nor inebriated. So when the Orchid Hunter spoke he showed a touch of temper.
“Don’t talk sea slang to me,” he commanded; “when you say he is a mouse, what do you mean by a mouse?”
“I mean a mouse,” said the Lieutenant, “a white mouse with pink eyes. He bunks in the engine-room, and when he smells sulphuric gas escaping anywhere he squeals; and the chief finds the leak, and the ship isn’t blown up. Sometimes, one little, white mouse will save the lives of a dozen bluejackets.”
Roddy and Peter de Peyster nodded appreciatively.
“Mos’ extr’d’n’ry!” said the Orchid Hunter. “Mos’ sad, too. I will now drink to the mouse. The moral of the story is,” he pointed out, “that everybody, no matter how impecunious, can help; even you fellows could help. So could I.”
His voice rose in sudden excitement. “I will now,” he cried, “organize the Society of the Order of the White Mice. The object of the society is to save everybody’s life. Don’t tell me,” he objected scornfully, “that you fellows will let a little white mice save twelve hundred bluejackets, an’ you sit there an’ grin. You mus’ all be a White Mice. You mus’ all save somebody’s life. An’—then—then we give ourself a dinner.”
“And medals!” suggested Peter de Peyster.
The Orchid Hunter frowned. He regarded the amendment with suspicion.
“Is’t th’ intention of the Hon’ble Member from N’York,” he asked, “that each of us gets a medal, or just th’ one that does th’ saving?”