Then they had in the Gunner, the Bo'sun, an' the
Carpenter, an' stood them large round drinks. It all come out later--
wardroom joints bein' lower-deck hash, as the sayin' is--that our Number
One stuck to it that 'e couldn't trust the ship for the job. The old man
swore 'e could, 'avin' commanded 'er over two years. He was right. There
wasn't a ship, I don't care in what fleet, could come near the
_Archimandrites_ when we give our mind to a thing. We held the cruiser
big-gun records, the sailing-cutter (fancy-rig) championship, an' the
challenge-cup row round the fleet. We 'ad the best nigger-minstrels, the
best football an' cricket teams, an' the best squee-jee band of anything
that ever pushed in front of a brace o' screws. An' _yet_ our Number One
mistrusted us! 'E said we'd be a floatin' hell in a week, an' it 'ud take
the rest o' the commission to stop our way. They was arguin' it in the
wardroom when the bridge reports a light three points off the port bow. We
overtakes her, switches on our search-light, an' she discloses herself as
a collier o' no mean reputation, makin' about seven knots on 'er lawful
occasions--to the Cape most like.
"Then the owner--so we 'eard in good time--broke the boom, springin' all
mines together at close interval.
"'Look 'ere, my jokers,' 'e says (I'm givin' the grist of 'is arguments,
remember), 'Number One says we can't enlighten this cutter-cuddlin Gaulish
lootenant on the manners an' customs o' the Navy without makin' the ship a
market-garden.
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