It was at this point that the man from H.M.S. Hedgehog (or, to be precise, H.M.S. Something Else) fell into the conversation suddenly, like a bomb.
"'E wouldn't be naked," he said earnestly; "'e'd 'ave 'is shirt."
This was a staggerer. One of those great simple truths sometimes overlooked by more abstruse thinkers. But the owner of the problem made one more stand.
"'Oo'd walk about in a shirt?" he said scornfully.
"Me," said the large seaman, "time I was torpedoed...."
He didn't say another word; but the problem was irretrievably lost. There had been something magnificently daring about the idea of a man walking about like a lost cherub; partly clothed, nobody cared very much what became of him.
Besides, we all wanted to hear Admiralty secrets. We sat there in respectful silence while the train rattled on its way; but the large seaman only went on smiling peacefully to himself, as if he were ruminating in immense satisfaction upon unprecedented bags of submarines.
"The architect for the new building left nothing out that would at all hamper the comfort of those who make this hotel their stopping place."—New Zealand Paper.
We know that architect.