The spurs troubled me, and I made bold to say as much. "Them!" he said,
coming to an intricate halt. "They're part of the _prima facie_ evidence.
But as for me--let me carry your bag--I'm second in command, leadin'-hand,
cook, steward, an' lavatory man, with a few incidentals for sixpence a day
extra, on No. 267 torpedo-boat."
"They wear spurs there?"
"Well," said Mr. Peycroft, "seein' that Two Six Seven belongs to Blue
Fleet, which left the day before yesterday, disguises are imperative. It
transpired thus. The Right Honourable Lord Gawd Almighty Admiral Master
Frankie Frobisher, K.C.B., commandin' Blue Fleet, can't be bothered with
one tin-torpedo-boat more or less; and what with lyin' in the Reserve four
years, an' what with the new kind o' tiffy which cleans dynamos with
brick-dust and oil (Blast these spurs! They won't render!), Two Six
Seven's steam-gadgets was paralytic. Our Mr. Moorshed done his painstakin'
best--it's his first command of a war-canoe, matoor age nineteen (down
that alleyway, please!) but be that as it may, His Holiness Frankie is
aware of us crabbin' ourselves round the breakwater at five knots, an'
steerin' _pari passu_, as the French say. (Up this alley-way, please!) If
he'd given Mr. Hinchcliffe, our chief engineer, a little time, it would
never have transpired, for what Hinch can't drive he can coax; but the new
port bein' a trifle cloudy, an' 'is joints tinglin' after a post-captain
dinner, Frankie come on the upper bridge seekin' for a sacrifice.
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