'
"'Deviate to blazes!' says 'Op. 'I'm goin' to deviate to the owner's
comfortable cabin direct.' So he deviated."
Mr. Pyecroft leaned forward and dealt the Marine a large pattern Navy
kick. "'Ere, Glass! You was sentry when 'Op went to the old man--the first
time, with Antonio's washin'-book. Tell us what transpired. You're sober.
You don't know how sober you are!"
The Marine cautiously raised his head a few inches. As Mr. Pyecroft said,
he was sober--after some R.M.L.I. fashion of his own devising. "'Op bounds
in like a startled anteloper, carryin' 'is signal-slate at the ready. The
old man was settin' down to 'is bountiful platter--not like you an' me,
without anythin' more in sight for an 'ole night an' 'arf a day. Talkin'
about food--"
"No! No! No!" cried Pyecroft, kicking again. "What about 'Op?" I thought
the Marine's ribs would have snapped, but he merely hiccuped.
"Oh, 'im! 'E 'ad it written all down on 'is little slate--I think--an' 'e
shoves it under the old man's nose. 'Shut the door,' says 'Op. 'For
'Eavin's sake shut the cabin door!' Then the old man must ha' said
somethin' 'bout irons. 'I'll put 'em on, Sir, in your very presence,' says
'Op, 'only 'ear my prayer,' or--words to that 'fect.... It was jus' the
same with me when I called our Sergeant a bladder-bellied, lard-'eaded,
perspirin' pension-cheater. They on'y put on the charge-sheet 'words to
that effect,' Spoiled the 'ole 'fect.
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