It took us half the night 'fore we got
'er anyway ship-shape; but by sunrise she was beautiful as ever, and we
resoomed. I've thought it over a lot since; yes, an' I've thought a lot of
Antonio trimmin' coal in that tramp's bunkers. 'E must 'ave been highly
surprised. Wasn't he?"
"He was, Mr. Pyecroft," I responded. "But now we're talking of it, weren't
you all a little surprised?"
"It come as a pleasant relief to the regular routine," said Mr. Pyecroft.
"We appreciated it as an easy way o' workin' for your country. But--the
old man was right--a week o' similar manoeuvres would 'ave knocked our
moral double-bottoms bung out. Now, couldn't you oblige with Antonio's
account of Glass's execution?"
I obliged for nearly ten minutes. It was at best but a feeble rendering of
M. de C.'s magnificent prose, through which the soul of the poet, the eye
of the mariner, and the heart of the patriot bore magnificent accord. His
account of his descent from the side of the "_infamous vessel consecrated
to blood_" in the "_vast and gathering dusk of the trembling ocean_" could
only be matched by his description of the dishonoured hammock sinking
unnoticed through the depths, while, above, the bugler played music "_of
an indefinable brutality_"
"By the way, what did the bugler play after Glass's funeral?" I asked.
"Him? Oh! 'e played 'The Strict Q.T.' It's a very old song. We 'ad it in
Fratton nearly fifteen years back," said Mr.
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