“Resumin’ afresh,” said Mr. Pyecroft, after a well-watered interval, “I may as well say that the target-practice occupied us two hours, and then we had to dig out after the tramp. Then we half an’ three-quarters cleaned up the decks an’ mucked about as requisite, haulin’ down the patent awnin’ stun’sles which Number One ’ad made. The old man was a shade doubtful of his course, ’cause I ’eard him say to Number One, ‘You were right. A week o’ this would turn the ship into a Hayti bean-feast. But,’ he says pathetic, ‘haven’t they backed the band noble?’
“‘Oh! it’s a picnic for them,’ says Number One.
“‘But when do we get rid o’ this whisky-peddlin’ blighter o’ yours, Sir?’
“‘That’s a cheerful way to speak of a Viscount,’ says the old man. “E’s the bluest blood o’ France when he’s at home,’
“‘Which is the precise landfall I wish ’im to make,’ says Number One.’ It’ll take all ’ands and the Captain of the Head to clean up after ’im.’
“‘They won’t grudge it,’ says the old man. ‘Just as soon as it’s dusk we’ll overhaul our tramp friend an’ waft him over.’
“Then a sno—midshipman—Moorshed was is name—come up an’ says somethin’ in a low voice. It fetches the old man.
“‘You’ll oblige me,’ ’e says, ‘by takin’ the wardroom poultry for that. I’ve ear-marked every fowl we’ve shipped at Madeira, so there can’t be any possible mistake. M’rover,’ ’e says, ‘tell ’em if they spill one drop of blood on the deck,’ he says, ‘they’ll not be extenuated, but hung.’
“Mr. Moorshed goes forward, lookin’ unusual ’appy, even for him. The Marines was enjoyin’ a committee-meetin’ in their own flat.
“After that, it fell dark, with just a little streaky, oily light on the sea—an’ anythin’ more chronic than the Archimandrite I’d trouble you to behold. She looked like a fancy bazaar and a auction-room—yes, she almost looked like a passenger-steamer. We’d picked up our tramp, an’ was about four mile be’ind ’er. I noticed the wardroom as a class, you might say, was manoeuvrin’ en masse, an’ then come the order to cockbill the yards. We hadn’t any yards except a couple o’ signallin’ sticks, but we cock-billed ’em. I hadn’t seen that sight, not since thirteen years in the West Indies, when a post-captain died o’ yellow jack. It means a sign o’ mourning the yards bein’ canted opposite ways, to look drunk an’ disorderly. They do.