“Sheer carelessness!” declared the Bloke. “Leave jammed!”
Accepting the silent gesture of dismissal the midshipman saluted and, leaving the cabin, hurried along the half-deck to the gun-room.
The only occupants of the midshipmen’s den at the moment were two cheerful-looking youths, one of whom was disentombing articles of clothing from the depths of a sea-chest, while the other was poring over the pages of Bradshaw to reassure himself that a certain train did start at a certain time. At intervals for the last ten days he had looked up that train, making sure that asterisks and other mysterious signs did not affect its departure and subsequent arrival at its destination.
Already news had reached the gun-room that Kenneth Raxworthy had been “on the carpet” before the inexorable commander.
“What did he say?” inquired Whitwell, the midshipman struggling with the time-table.
“Leave jammed,” replied Kenneth laconically.
“Hard lines!” rejoined both snotties sympathetically.
“And he chucked my seamanship in my teeth,” continued Kenneth bitterly. “Said it was the most lubberly bit of work he’d ever seen. I told him that the steering-gear had jammed and he went for a look-see.”
“And then?” prompted Stamford, who was still heaving personal gear from the sea-chest.
“He said that the gear was all O.K.,” replied Raxworthy. “Mind you, I don’t say that it isn’t now, but I can swear it did jam as I came alongside. Well, that’s torn it, Jimmy, absolutely,” he continued, addressing Whitwell. “I’d better write to your people and tell them that I cannot accept their invitation.”