He was dressed in a checked ulster, a black
silk hat three sizes too small, cord-breeches, boots, and pure brass
spurs. These he managed painfully, stepping like a prisoner fresh from
leg-irons. As he adjusted the pepper-plaster to the gum the light fell on
his face, and I recognised Mr. Emanuel Pyecroft, late second-class petty
officer of H.M.S. _Archimandrite_, an unforgettable man, met a year before
under Tom Wessel's roof in Plymouth. It occurred to me that when a petty
officer takes to spurs he may conceivably meditate desertion. For that
reason I, though a taxpayer, made no sign. Indeed, it was Mr. Pyecroft,
following me out of the shop, who said hollowly: "What might you be doing
here?"
"I'm going on manoeuvres in the _Pedantic_," I replied.
"Ho!" said Mr. Pyecroft. "An' what manner o' manoeuvres d'you expect to
see in a blighted cathedral like the _Pedantic_? _I_ know 'er. I knew her
in Malta, when the _Vulcan_ was her permanent tender. Manoeuvres! You
won't see more than 'Man an' arm watertight doors!' in your little woollen
undervest."
"I'm sorry for that."
"Why?" He lurched heavily as his spurs caught and twanged like tuning-
forks. "War's declared at midnight. _Pedantics_ be sugared! Buy an 'am an'
see life!"
For the moment I fancied Mr. Pyecroft, a fugitive from justice, purposed
that we two should embrace a Robin Hood career in the uplands of Dorset.
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