“I’m in charge o’ the cutter. Our wardroom is dinin’ on the beach en masse. They won’t be home till mornin’,” said the square man with the remarkable eyes. “Are you an Archimandrite?” I demanded.
“That’s me. I was, as you might say.”
“Hold on. I’m a Archimandrite.” A Red Marine with moist eyes tried to climb on the table. “Was you lookin’ for a Bedlamite? I’ve—I’ve been invalided, an’ what with that, an’ visitin’ my family ’ome at Lewes, per’aps I’ve come late. ’Ave I?”
“You’ve ’ad all that’s good for you,” said Tom Wessels, as the Red Marine sat cross-legged on the floor.
“There are those ’oo haven’t ’ad a thing yet!” cried a voice by the door.
“I will take this Archimandrite,” I said, “and this Marine. Will you please give the boat’s crew a drink now, and another in half an hour if—if Mr.——”
“Pyecroft,” said the square man. “Emanuel Pyecroft, second-class petty-officer.”
“—Mr. Pyecroft doesn’t object?”
“He don’t. Clear out. Goldin’, you picket the hill by yourself, throwin’ out a skirmishin’-line in ample time to let me know when Number One’s comin’ down from his vittles.”
The crowd dissolved. We passed into the quiet of the inner bar, the Red Marine zealously leading the way.