“Silence!” ordered the Superintendent.
“Find yourself,” persisted Bobbie, “turned into a bloomin’ Russian very like, and sent to Siberia.”
“You have your answer,” remarked the chairman, jovially.
“Kids’ talk,” growled the carpenter.
“Why,” declared Bobbie, “it’s the only protection you’ve got to enable you to carry on your business peaceably and successfully, and without interference.”
“I never felt the want of no navy in carryin’ on my business in Shoreditch.”
“Course you didn’t,” said Bobbie. “But if there hadn’t been a navy you would.”
It was all very irregular; the Superintendent felt this, but the members of the committee showed so much gratification in seeing their colleague routed that it scarce seemed right for him to interfere. The chairman rapped gently on the table as a mild reminder that order appeared to be temporarily absent.
“Fact of it is,” said the carpenter, resentfully, “you youngsters get so pampered—”
“Come, come!” said the chairman, “let us get along. You think you’ll like the navy, my lad?”