I gathered information on the way from a leading stoker, two seaman-gunners, and an odd hand in a torpedo factory. They courteously set my feet on the right path, and that led me through the alleys of Devonport to a public-house not fifty yards from the water. We drank with the proprietor, a huge, yellowish man called Tom Wessels; and when my guides had departed, I asked if he could produce any warrant or petty officer of the Archimandrite.
“The Bedlamite, d’you mean—’er last commission, when they all went crazy?”
“Shouldn’t wonder,” I replied. “Fetch me a sample and I’ll see.”
“You’ll excuse me, o’ course, but—what d’you want ’im for?”
“I want to make him drunk. I want to make you drunk—if you like. I want to make him drunk here.”
“Spoke very ’andsome. I’ll do what I can.” He went out towards the water that lapped at the foot of the street. I gathered from the pot-boy that he was a person of influence beyond Admirals.
In a few minutes I heard the noise of an advancing crowd, and the voice of Mr. Wessels.
“’E only wants to make you drunk at ’is expense. Dessay ’e’ll stand you all a drink. Come up an’ look at ’im. ’E don’t bite.”
A square man, with remarkable eyes, entered at the head of six large bluejackets. Behind them gathered a contingent of hopeful free-drinkers.
“’E’s the only one I could get. Transferred to the Postulant six months back. I found ’im quite accidental.” Mr. Wessels beamed.