Part 13 (1/2)

The third time, and the fourth time, Chiz sets for a knee-high one with an inshoot to it, and the third time and the fourth time he belts it over the old fellow's head and down the long slope. But on the fourth time the old fellow doesn't throw the ball in. He walks in with it and he calls in the high official umpires, or whoever they are in charge, and they have a conference, and the next thing they call the game off.

By this time, doubtless (so the word was pa.s.sed), the American officers have caught the idea of the game, and next time there would be a real game and so on.

But there was no next game. However, next day Chiz puts out to sea, and when he's into port again he calls up on the hill as per instructions.

And by and by he is pa.s.sed again into the presence, who is sitting just as before at the flat desk in the middle of the room, and gazing straight before him.

This time Chiz doesn't speak, not even to say; ”Good morning, sir.” And the graven image at the desk doesn't speak either, and there's a silence for maybe a minute, and then the old fellow barks out: ”What are you standing there for? You wish to see me?” And Chiz barks out in his turn: ”No, sir, I don't wish to see you.”

”You do not wish to see me? Then what are you doing here?”

And Chiz cracks out: ”I'm here because your orders compel me to be here, sir.”

_Zowie!_--that straightened the old boy up. He took a look at Chiz, and he says, after a while and almost pleasantly: ”Have a chair.”

And Chiz has a chair, and they have a talk, and after that Chiz finds him a lot easier to get along with. Chiz says now that the old fellow isn't such a terrible chap--not after you get onto his curves.

When we first came over (Mac is still speaking), most of the topsiders over here were strong for the entente stuff, and a good thing, too--why not?

Our fellows were mostly strong for it, too--two or three so strong that it was hard to tell whether they were Americans or something else--even their accents.

And, as I say, most of the officers of our own over here were for it--most of them. But you can't rid everybody overnight of long-inherited notions. There was one chap we used to meet, and he sure was the most patronizing thing!

Now, we know we haven't the biggest navy in the world, but as far as it goes we think it is pretty good. As good as anybody's, man for man, and s.h.i.+p for s.h.i.+p--but let that pa.s.s.

This chap, who never could see anything in our navy, came in here one day. He wasn't bad. He was just one of those naturally foolish ones who thought he was a little brighter than his company. The topsiders would be working night and day to create good feeling, and he was the kind would come along and break up the show--not exactly meaning to.

This was in the hotel bar here, where a bunch of us were easing off after a hard cruise, when he comes along. He doesn't like the names of our destroyers. In his navy there was significance in the names they gave to a cla.s.s of s.h.i.+ps.

”Take _Viper_, _Adder_, _Moccasin_, and so on--they suggest things y'

know. Dangerous to meddle with and all that sort of thing, y' know. But your people name your s.h.i.+ps after men evidently--_David Jones_, _Conyngham_, _McDonough_. I say, who are they--Presidents or senators or that sort, or what?”

Lanahan was there--the h.e.l.l-with-her-ram-her-anyway Lanahan--and we all just naturally turned him over to Lanahan, who had west-of-Ireland forebears, and never did believe in letting any Englishman put anything across--nothing like that anyway.

”You never read much, I take it, of our history?” says Lanahan.

”Your history? My dear chap, I had hard work keeping up with my own.”

”No doubt. But you've heard of the American Revolution?”

”I dessay I have--Oh, yes, I have!”

”Well, you spoke of Jones. If you mean John Paul, then there was a naval fight one time in the North Sea--the _Serapis_ and the _Bonhomme Richard_.”

”I say, old chap, I didn't mention John Paul Jones. _David Jones_ is the name of your destroyer out in the harbor now.”

”David Jones? Let me see. Why, sure, David Jones was a New England parson who boarded around among the G.o.d-fearing neighbors for his keep on week-days and preached the wrath of G.o.d and h.e.l.l-fire for his cash wage--five pound a year--on Sundays. He was a devout man. If thy finger offend thee, cut it off. But a sort of muscular Christian, too. If thy enemy cross thee, go out and whale the livers and lights out of him--same as we're trying to do to the U-boats now.