Part 1 (2/2)

”But the most important member of the s.h.i.+p's company on a submarine,”

said the sailor-man, ”doesn't draw any pay at all, and he has no rating. He is a mouse.”

”He's a _what_?” demanded the Orchid Hunter. He had been patriotically celebrating the arrival of the American Squadron. During tiffin, the sight of the white uniforms in the hotel dining-room had increased his patriotism; and after tiffin the departure of the Pacific Mail, carrying to the Golden Gate so many ”good fellows,” further aroused it. Until the night before, in the billiard-room, he had never met any of the good fellows; but the thought that he might never see them again now depressed him. And the tea he was drinking neither cheered nor inebriated. So when the Orchid Hunter spoke he showed a touch of temper.

”Don't talk sea slang to me,” he commanded; ”when you say he is a mouse, what do you mean by a mouse?”

”I mean a mouse,” said the Lieutenant, ”a white mouse with pink eyes.

He bunks in the engine-room, and when he smells sulphuric gas escaping anywhere he squeals; and the chief finds the leak, and the s.h.i.+p isn't blown up. Sometimes, one little, white mouse will save the lives of a dozen bluejackets.”

Roddy and Peter de Peyster nodded appreciatively.

”Mos' extr'd'n'ry!” said the Orchid Hunter. ”Mos' sad, too. I will now drink to the mouse. The moral of the story is,” he pointed out, ”that everybody, no matter how impecunious, can help; even you fellows could help. So could I.”

His voice rose in sudden excitement. ”I will now,” he cried, ”organize the Society of the Order of the White Mice. The object of the society is to save everybody's life. Don't tell me,” he objected scornfully, ”that you fellows will let a little white mice save twelve hundred bluejackets, an' you sit there an' grin. You mus' all be a White Mice.

You mus' all save somebody's life. An'--then--then we give ourself a dinner.”

”And medals!” suggested Peter de Peyster.

The Orchid Hunter frowned. He regarded the amendment with suspicion.

”Is't th' intention of the Hon'ble Member from N'York,” he asked, ”that _each_ of us gets a medal, or just th' one that does th'

saving?”

”Just one,” said Peter de Peyster.

”No, we all get 'em,” protested Roddy. ”Each time!”

”Th' 'men'ment to th' 'men'ment is carried,” announced the Orchid Hunter. He untwisted his legs and clapped his hands. The paper walls slid apart, the little Nezans, giggling, bowing, ironing out their knees with open palms, came tripping and stumbling to obey.

”Take away the tea!” shouted the Orchid Hunter. ”It makes me nervous.

Bring us fizzy-water, in larges' size, cold, expensive bottles. And now, you fellows,” proclaimed the Orchid Hunter, ”I'm goin' into secret session and initiate you into Yokohama Chapter, Secret Order of White Mice. And--I will be Mos' Exalted Secret White Mouse.”

When he returned to the s.h.i.+p Perry told the wardroom about it and laughed, and the wardroom laughed, and that night at the Grand Hotel, while the j.a.panese band played ”Give My Regards to Broadway,” which Peter de Peyster told them was the American national anthem, the White Mice gave their first annual dinner. For, as the Orchid Hunter pointed out, in order to save life, one must sustain it.

And Louis Eppinger himself designed that dinner, and the Paymaster, and Perry's brother-officers, who were honored guests, still speak of it with awe; and the next week's _Box of Curios_ said of it editorially: ”And while our little Yokohama police know much of ju-jitsu, they found that they had still something to learn of the short jab to the jaw and the quick getaway.”

Indeed, throughout, it was a most successful dinner.

And just to show how small this world is, and that ”G.o.d moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform,” at three o'clock that morning, when the dinner-party in rickshaws were rolling down the Bund, singing ”We're Little White Mice Who Have Gone Astray,” their voices carried across the Pacific, across the Cordilleras and the Caribbean Sea; and an old man in his cell, tossing and s.h.i.+vering with fever, smiled and sank to sleep; for in his dreams he had heard the scampering feet of the White Mice, and he had seen the gates of his prison-cell roll open.

The Forrester Construction Company did not get the contract to build the three light-houses. The j.a.panese preferred a light-house made by an English firm. They said it was cheaper. It _was_ cheaper, because they bought the working plans from a draughtsman the English firm had discharged for drunkenness, and, by causing the revolving light to wink once instead of twice, dodged their own patent laws.

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