“America thinks a great deal of you, Admiral,” I interrupted his melancholy monologue. “The nation cherishes the memory of your thrilling exploits. It will never forget your heroic deeds.”
The old Admiral brightened up a bit at this, but quickly relapsed into his melancholy mood. “No whiskey, no brandy—” he began again, when I tried the effect of another diversion.
“The nation is still safe, Admiral, and it has the largest number of ships and sailors in its history. The recent great war produced its heroes, too. We do not lack for defenders, you will be glad to know, if ever America is assailed again.”
“Yes, I’ve heard something about it,” he grumblingly admitted. “There’s a new-fangled cowardly sort of craft that goes under water and stabs in the back, a regular assassin, I call it. Farragut and Perry and some of the boys went down to perform at a seance in Philadelphia the other night, and they heard a lot of talk about your new naval heroes that have made us back numbers. There was Sims, and Daniels, and Benson, and—and—Admiral What’s-his-name? I can’t just think of it. Gray? No, that’s not it exactly. Admiral—Admiral—”
“Not Grayson?”
“Yes, that’s it, Rear Admiral Grayson. His flagship was the George Washington, I believe. And Admiral Denby, what did he do? I just can’t recollect on the moment.”
“Mr. Denby is not an Admiral; he’s the Secretary of the Navy. He’s not supposed to go to sea. He sits at a desk, instead of standing on a deck.”
“Oh, I see. But Rear Admiral Grayson? I wish you would describe some of his exploits to me.”
“Well-er—that’s a little difficult to explain, Admiral Jones, for you have been so long out of touch with our system. Admiral Grayson is really a doctor, and—”
“You mean the admirals say he is a doctor and the doctors say he is an admiral?”