Pincher Martin, O.D.: A Story of the Inner Life of the Royal Navy

CHAPTER VIII
A FAIR SKY

I

'Leaf!' sniffed Pincher disconsolately. 'Wot's the good o' seven days' leaf ter a bloke wot ain't got no money?'

'No money!' exclaimed Billings, rather surprised. 'Why ain't yer got none? Thought yer wus one o' these 'ere chaps wot counted every penny.'

'I've bin spendin' a good bit lately one way an' another,' Martin explained, removing a half-used cigarette from the interior of his cap and lighting it.

Joshua grinned. He knew well enough that an ordinary seaman's pay of one shilling and threepence per diem, less various necessary personal expenses, did not go far when one was 'walking out' with a young lady.

Pincher loved his Emmeline very dearly, and Emmeline, she said, had come to love him; but he was bound to admit she was rather an expensive luxury. Moreover, he was far too proud to allow her to pay her share of their amusements when he was with her, which was pretty often. So, what with picture-palaces and visits to confectioners' shops, his eight-and-ninepence a week went nowhere. He had even been forced to borrow from his shipmates – always a difficult matter.

Then there had been the affair of the locket, over which Pincher felt he had been badly done. He had had his photograph taken, and had had it mounted in a rolled-gold ornament of chaste design for which he had paid the sum of seven shillings and sixpence, and this he had presented to Emmeline to be worn round her neck in place of the one which already hung there. He had imagined that this nine-carat gold case hid the features of some other admirer. It did nothing of the kind. Its interior, when he was allowed to investigate it personally, contained nothing but a faithful likeness of the girl's father – top-hat, side-whiskers, and all. Emmeline seemed rather amused. Pincher never quite got over it.

'Carn't yer get a hadvance o' money from th' paybob?'²² Joshua suggested. "E ain't a bad old bloke so long as yer goes ter 'im wi' a yarn o' bein' desperate 'ard up, an' yer pore ole farther's 'ome bein' sold up, an' 'im an' yer ma an' the kids goin' ter th' work'ouse.'

'I've tried that,' Pincher answered glumly. 'Leastways, orl excep' the yarn wot yer said. 'E simply tells me I'm in debt ter the Crown 'cos o' clothes an' other gear wot I've bought, an' that 'e carn't do nothink.'

'I calls it a houtrage!' said Billings sympathetically, looking very solemn. 'The way they bleeds us pore matloes is enuf – enuf – I carn't think o' wot I wus goin' ter say,' he added lamely; 'but it's abart time somethin' wus done. S'welp me, it is!'

'An' abart time you pays back that two bob wot you borrowed off me,' Pincher chipped in, remembering the debt.

'Two bob!' cried Joshua, screwing up his face and trying hard to appear as if he didn't know what Pincher was driving at. 'Wot two bob?'

'Th' two bob I lends yer the night yer took Missis Figgins along ter th' pictures. You knows orl abart it.'

'Thought it wus a present ter me,' said the old sinner, unable to feign further forgetfulness, but affecting to be very grieved. 'A bit o' a return like fur me trubble in introjoocin' yer to th' gal. That's wot I thought it wus; strite I did.'

Pincher laughed, for Billings's dissimulation was so very palpable. 'Don't act so barmy,' he observed. 'Yer knows it wasn't. Yer don't 'ave me on like that.'

'But two bob ain't no good ter yer fur Christmas leaf,' protested the A.B., veering off on another tack.

'Carn't 'elp that. I wants it back.'

'Well, you shall 'ave it,' Joshua grumbled. 'But I calls it a dirty sort o' way ter treat a chap wot's done for you wot I 'ave.'

'Garn! don't act so wet, I tell yer.'

'Orl right! orl right! Don't go an' git rattled abart it,' said Billings resignedly. 'You shall 'ave yer money. You shall 'ave it if I 'as ter go without bacca fur a month; but where'd you be, I should like ter know, if yer 'adn't got a bloke like me ter look arter yer? Look wot I done fur yer since yer jined this ship! Bin yer sea-daddy, I 'ave, same as if you were my own son, an' yet yer treats me like this! Hingratitoode's wot I calls it. 'Orrible hingratitoode! Orl you young blokes is the same!' He sighed deeply, and regarded Pincher with a pained expression.

The latter seemed rather concerned. 'If yer looks on it like that, Billings, o' course I carn't' —

The A.B. waved an arm with a gesture of dissent. 'It's too late ter start talkin' now,' he observed sadly. 'Th' 'arm's done. You shall 'ave yer money, but you've gorn back on a pal, an' orl fur the sake o' two bob. Two bob! Wot is it?'

'Let's 'ave it, then,' said Pincher, holding out a tentative hand.

''Ave it! Yer don't reely want it, do yer?'

'Course I do.'

'I'll give it yer afore I goes on leaf.'

'I wants it now,' Pincher persisted, remembering Joshua's extremely short memory.

'D' you think I ain't honest?' the latter demanded. ''Cos, if yer do, jest say th' word, an' see wot yer gits!'

'I never sez you wasn't honest; but I wants me money back!'

Billings saw that further argument was useless, sighed once more, replaced his pipe in his mouth, fumbled under his jumper, and produced a leather purse from the money-belt round his waist. Its contents chinked opulently; but, shielding it from Pincher's wistful gaze, he extracted a shilling and two sixpenny-pieces and handed them across. 'There ye are!' he grunted. 'Don't git sayin' as 'ow I doesn't pay me debts.'

'Yer pays 'em a bit be'ind time,' Pincher retorted with some truth, secreting the coins on his own person.

Joshua laughed in quite a friendly way. 'Tizzy-snatcher!' he growled, with his eyes twinkling.

But Pincher was bitterly disappointed about the leave. The men were to be sent away for seven days, one party being at home for Christmas and the other for the New Year. His watch were to start the following day; but, beyond the two shillings he had just obtained from Billings, he literally had not a penny to pay his train fare home. He could get the usual third-class return ticket from Weymouth to London, and from there on to his home, for the single fare; but even that would cost him the best part of a sovereign. He had tried hard to induce the fleet paymaster to give him an advance of pay, but that harassed officer, pointing out that Pincher was already in debt to the Crown, firmly declined to do so. Then Martin had endeavoured to borrow money from his shipmates; but they, though sympathetic, wanted every penny they could lay their hands on for their own purposes. He then thought of writing to his people for the necessary sum, but abandoned the idea, because he knew well enough that they, on their very limited income, always had great difficulty in making both ends meet. Christmas, moreover, was always an expensive time, and there were three younger Martins to be considered.

It was really rather galling, and he half-regretted having spent all his money on Emmeline. Since joining the service he had been home on leave before, of course, but not as an ordinary seaman of a first-class battleship, and he was well aware that as such he would be a person of some importance in the village. The blacksmith's son, Tom Sellon, had left Caxton a mere country yokel to join the army. The winter previous, as a strapping, full-fledged private of one of his Majesty's line regiments, he had come home on a few days' furlough resplendent in a wonderful red tunic. His arrival created no small stir, for Caxton lay in the heart of the Midlands, and its inhabitants were unused to the pomp and circumstance of war. Sellon, moreover, thought a great deal of himself. According to him, Great Britain was inhabited by two classes of people, those who were in the army and those who were not, and he treated all 'civvies,' as he called them, with kindly tolerance. He stood treat in a lordly sort of way at the 'Flying Swan,' and condescended to drink what beer the village magnates offered him in return for this hospitality. He was not averse to being friendly with their pretty daughters either. In short, a scarlet tunic and an air of self-assurance had worked wonders, for before he donned the red coat Tom had been a mere nonentity. Now he was a personage, with a capital P, and had even pretended to be rather diffident about accepting half-a-sovereign which the squire, who had known him since childhood, pressed into his palm one Sunday after church.

Now Pincher, who knew little of the army, cordially despised soldiers in his heart of hearts. He longed to cut out Tom Sellon, but this cursed lack of money at the critical moment had upset all his plans. He could have wept from sheer vexation, for there seemed no alternative to spending Christmas on board.

But it so happened that the railway company wished to know the number of men proceeding by rail the next morning, and at 'Quarters' that afternoon Tickle ordered all the men of the starboard watch of his division to fall in on the right. Pincher went with them.

'Are any of you men not going away by rail to-morrow morning?' the officer asked.

Four hands went up at once.

'Why aren't you going?' Tickle asked the first man.

'Spendin' the leaf in Weymouth, sir.'

'And you?' to the next.

'I lives in Dorchester, sir. Goin' on by a later train.'

'Ain't takin' th' leaf, sir,' said the third.

'Why not?'

'Nowhere to go, sir.'

'Have you no parents, or relations, or any one else you can go and stay with?'

'I'm an orphing, sir,' the man rather flummoxed him by replying. 'I'd rather stay aboard the ship than go an' see me old uncle wot lives in Peckham, sir. 'E's married agen, sir, an' 'is wife keeps a fried-fish shop.'

Tickle smiled and passed on. 'And what about you?' he queried, coming to Martin.

'Ain't got no money, sir.'

'Have you been to the paymaster for an advance?'

'Yessir.'

'What did he say?'

'Said I was in debt, sir.'

'How much does it cost you to get home?'

'Best part of a quid – sovereign, I means, sir.'

Tickle thought for a minute, nodded, numbered those men who were going, and then dismissed them.

Pincher thought nothing more of the conversation, but that evening he was told to go to the ship's office.

'Is your name Martin?' asked an assistant-paymaster when he arrived.

'Yessir.'

'You want some money to go on leave with, eh?'

'Yessir, please,' said the ordinary seaman, feeling hopeful.

'We can let you have thirty shillings. Is that enough?'

'Yessir,' Pincher exclaimed, his eyes glistening.

'Are you willing to pay it back at the rate of three shillings a month?'

'Yessir.'

'All right. Sign that receipt.'

Pincher, astounded at his good fortune, hurriedly scrawled his name, was handed a golden sovereign and ten shillings in silver, and left the office with a satisfied grin all over his face and the coins jingling in his hand. He was so pleased at his good luck that he didn't stop to consider where the money came from. All he cared about was that he had got it, and that he could go home and cut out Tom Sellon, after all.

As a matter of fact, it was Tickle himself who had acted the part of a nautical fairy godmother. He had noticed that Pincher seemed very unhappy, and had guessed the reason, and at first thought of lending him the money outright. Thirty shillings more or less meant nothing to him. But then, remembering that Martin would probably refuse the loan from feelings of pride, he hit upon a better plan; so he went to the fleet paymaster, handed him the money, and requested him to pay it over to Pincher as if it were an official advance.

'My dear Tickle,' protested Cashley, 'you'll never get it back! The boy's already in debt to the Crown, and his pay's only one-and-three a day!'

'Let him pay it back at the rate of three bob a month, sir,' suggested the lieutenant. 'I'm not particular. He looks so damned miserable at not being able to get away on leave that I must do something. Don't tell him it comes from me, though. He won't take it if he knows that.'

'All right. I'll see to it,' the fleet paymaster acquiesced, smiling. 'I suppose,' he asked jokingly, 'you wouldn't lend a poor old buffer like me twenty or thirty pounds to buy the wife a turkey and a plum-pudding?'

'I'd watch it, sir!' Tickle laughed. 'What about that new car you bought a fortnight ago?'

'That's why I want to borrow from you,' Cashley grinned. 'However, I'll fix Martin's money up for you, though I must say I think you're a tender-hearted fool, Tickle. You'll be badly had one of these days.'

Tickle merely smiled. The prospect did not alarm him.

So the next morning, at seven-thirty, Pincher, arrayed in his best clothes, left the ship with a sweet smile and a little bundle of necessaries done up in a blue-striped handkerchief. An hour later he was sitting in a third-class carriage on his way to London, munching a doubtful-looking sausage-roll, and listening to a slightly intoxicated sailor next to him, who insisted on giving the company what he called 'a little moosic.' It consisted of a few fragmentary remarks in a deep-bass rumble about the perils of a sailor's life, sudden hiccups as full stops, and frequent gurgling noises and sounds of enjoyment as the songster upended a quart bottle of Bass's light dinner ale, and applied the business end to his mouth. He eventually finished the song and the bottle at the same time, and, shying the latter playfully through the open window, volunteered to fight the whole carriage. This pleasure being denied him, he solemnly kissed the company all round, and then went comfortably off to sleep with his mouth wide open, his head resting affectionately on Pincher's shoulder, and his feet on the opposite man's lap. Thus he remained until they arrived at Waterloo, where, on disembarking, he never noticed that one of his carriage-mates, by the skilful use of a burnt cork, had decorated his upper lip with a large black moustache.

History does not relate if he arrived home in this condition, for, after vainly endeavouring to induce various laughing porters and the amused guard of the train to 'come an' 'ave a wet, ole dear!' and then, when they refused, wanting to show there was no ill-feeling by exchanging headgear, he was last seen proceeding at three and a quarter knots on rather an erratic course towards the nearest refreshment-room.

But Pincher got home safe and sound without any difficulties of this kind, and by four o'clock was in the bosom of his admiring family.

II

The leave was all too short, though Pincher did succeed in attracting more attention than Tom Sellon, and was, after church on Christmas Day, the bashful recipient of a congratulatory speech and a golden sovereign from the squire.

Captain the Hon. James Lawson, J.P., the lord of the manor and a good many other things besides, was an old naval officer himself. He knew all the villagers by name, and took more than a passing interest in any of the boys who joined either the navy or the army. Pincher was aware of this, and imagined that he had received a pound, as against Tom Sellon's ten shillings the year before, because he happened to be a member of the senior service. As a matter of fact, it was due to nothing of the kind. It so happened that the squire had no smaller change in his waistcoat pocket.

But, at any rate, the news of Pincher's windfall was blurted far and wide, and his reputation rose accordingly. It was quite simple. If Thomas Sellon got ten shillings and William Martin a sovereign, obviously 1 Martin = 2 Sellons;∴ the two families almost came to blows to settle which was the better. Sellon père, in fact, felt himself so bitterly offended that he nearly went to the squire to complain. It was lucky for Captain Lawson that he didn't, for that would have cost the worthy squire another ten shillings to soothe his injured feelings.

The week flew by, and when Pincher returned to the ship and his Emmeline he soon settled down into the old routine. The girl, who seemed to have adopted him as her permanent 'young man,' now took it upon herself to correct the defects in his speech.

'Billy,' she said one day as they were walking arm-in-arm along the front at Weymouth, 'I don't like the way you talk.'

'You don't like my talk!' he returned, rather nettled. 'It's orl right, ain't it? Good enuf ter git on wi' aboard th' ship, any'ow!'

'There you go again!' she pointed out, smiling. 'You say "ain't" instead of "isn't," and "ter" instead of "to," and you drop your h's something horrid.'

'Wot's it matter if I do?' he demanded. 'I ain't – 'aven't, I mean – 'ad th' hadvantage o' a heddication same as you.'

The girl laughed outright. 'Don't get angry. I'm only telling you for your own good.'

'Orl right!' he retorted with asperity, disengaging his arm from hers; 'if I ain't good enuf for yer we'd best chuck the 'ole show, an' you can go back to yer Mister Parkin – 'im wot smells o' 'air-oil!'

'Don't be silly, stupid!' she chided, slipping her arm through his again and squeezing it affectionately. 'You know I don't like him a little bit.'

'You carn't like me, any'ow,' he remarked, bitterly offended.

'Leastways, if yer did yer wouldn't go talkin' the same as yer do.'

'Oh! don't I, indeed? Think I'd go walking out with you, and let you – er – behave as you do, if I wasn't fond of you?'

'Let's 'ave a kiss now,' Pincher suggested, drawing a little closer.

Emmeline pulled back. 'Go away, you naughty boy!' she laughed, blushing becomingly. 'Not in public, anyhow.'

'Yer knows I loves yer, Hemmeline, don't yer?' Pincher asked.

'M'yes,' she answered softly. 'If you didn't I don't suppose you'd carry on the way you do. But plenty of boys have said the same thing before, so you're not the only one – no, not by a long chalk.'

'D' you love me, Hemmeline?' Pincher wanted to know.

'Ah,' she said archly, 'now you're asking.'

'Come on, tell us if yer do.'

'Well,' she answered coyly, looking up at him through her long eyelashes, 'just a little, perhaps, when you're a good boy. That's why I want to tell you how to talk properly,' she went on to explain. 'I want you to get on – see?'

'Oh!' said Pincher, slightly mollified, but not knowing in the least how a correct pronunciation would make him rise in his profession, 'that's the lay, is it?'

Emmeline nodded.

III

By the end of February Martin had passed his examination in gunnery without much difficulty, and was half-way through his seamanship course. Here, under the guidance of Petty Officer Bartlett, he and several others like him were taught the rudiments of boat-work under oars and sail, the use of the compass and the helm, the rule of the road at sea, heaving the lead, knotting and splicing, signalling, and a hundred and one other things. The practical boat-work Pincher enjoyed, and soon got into; while the knots and splices, thanks to private tuition in his spare time from Joshua Billings, were comparatively easy to master. The more theoretical part of the business, however, was a little more difficult to absorb.

'The compass,' Petty Officer Bartlett explained to the class, as they sat round on stools in the foremost bag-flat – 'the compass is what we steers the ship with – see? It's supposed to point to the north pole, but it don't really. On the cont'ary, it points to wot we calls the north magnetic pole – see?'

The pupils looked rather puzzled.

''Owever,' the petty officer went on hurriedly, as one youth opened his mouth to ask what might have been an awkward question, 'we needn't worry our 'eads about that this arternoon, and you can take it from me that it does point pretty nearly to the north – see?

'This,' he continued, drawing an irregular circle on the blackboard, 'represents our compass-card, and 'ere we 'ave wot we calls the four cardinal points – north, south, east, and west.' He divided the circle into four parts by means of a vertical and a horizontal line, and labelled their extremities. ''As anybody not got 'old o' that?'

Everybody appeared to have grasped it, for they all sucked their teeth and remained silent.

The explanation continued, but half-way through his lecture Bartlett had reason to suppose that certain members of the class were not paying attention.

''Udson!' he said, pausing, chalk in hand, and addressing a freckle-faced youth, who had spent the afternoon surreptitiously eating apples and sticking pins into the most prominent portion of the anatomy of the man immediately in front of him, 'wot is the hopposite to west-nor'-west?'

'Sou'-sou'-west,' the youngster replied glibly.

'Look 'ere, my son, you're not payin' hattention; that's wot's the matter wi' you. D' you think I'm standin' up 'ere 'longside a blackboard chawin' my fat²³ for the good o' my 'ealth, or wot? Try agen.'

'Sou'-sou'-east,' the ordinary seaman attempted.

'You thick-'eaded galoot!' Bartlett growled. 'Don't you want to learn nothin'? Cos, if you don't, you're goin' the right way about it. Didn't you 'ave no teachin' afore you joined the navy? Think it's a 'ome for lost dogs, or wot? I asked you wot was hopposite to west-nor'-west – see?'

'East-sou'-east,' said Hudson at last.

'Right! Why couldn't you 'ave said so before, 'stead o' wastin' my time like this 'ere, you lop-eared, razor-necked son of a sea-cook? You perishin' O.D.'s don't seem to 'ave no common-sense, some'ow.'

And so, point by point, degree by degree, the petty officer gradually hammered the subject into their skulls until their brains whirled and their heads ached. Much of what he told them went in at one ear and out at the other; but something stuck, and at the end of a fortnight most of them could box the compass with a fair degree of accuracy, knew that its circumference was divided into thirty-two points and three hundred and sixty degrees, and were aware that each point was exactly eleven degrees fifteen minutes from the next. In short, they came to regard it as what it really is, an instrument whereby 'the mariner is able to guide a ship in any required direction,' and not merely as a complicated invention of the Evil One specially designed to involve the moribund brains of ordinary seamen in intricate mental gymnastics. What little wizard inside the compass-needle induced it to keep pointing towards the magnetic pole, a spot which most of them pictured as a desolate region of Esquimaux, icebergs, and polar bears, they did not know. They were quite content to take it for granted that it did so. The science of terrestrial magnetism, luckily for them, did not enter into their curriculum.

The learning of the marks and other details of the hand lead-line was quite a simple matter, and all the class – even Hudson, the fool of the party – could recite it all, poll-parrot fashion, at the end of the first day's instruction.

'Th' weight o' th' lead is ten ter fourteen pound, an' at th' bottom of 'im is a 'ole ter take a lump o' taller or soap ter hascertain th' nature o' th' bottom.' Here the reciter took a deep breath, and gazed anxiously at the instructor to see if he was correct.

Bartlett nodded encouragingly.

'Th' line is one an' a heighth hinches in circumference, an' is twenty-five fadum long, an' one end is secured ter an 'ide becket at th' top o' th' lead by means of a heye-splice. Th' hother end is made fast to a stanchion in th' chains. Th' line is marked as follers: at two fadum, two strips o' leather; at three fadum, three strips; five an' fifteen, a piece o' white buntin'; seven an' seventeen, red buntin'; thirteen, blue buntin'; ten, a piece o' leather wi' a 'ole in 'im; twenty, two knots. These is orl known as marks, cos they are marked, an' orl them fadums wot ain't marked is called deeps.'

Even Hudson knew all about the theoretical part of the business, so we need go no further.

But actually heaving the lead was a very different matter, for here the learner was forced to take up his stand in the chains, a small platform on a level with the forecastle, projecting perilously out over the water. The victim rested his middle against the breast-rope, grasped the line about two fathoms from the lead, and coiled the rest of the line in his free hand. Then, very nervously, he proceeded to swing the lead like an ordinary pendulum over the side of the ship to obtain impetus, until, when the line was horizontal on its forward swing, he was supposed to – what Bartlett called – 'swing it over the 'ead in a circle by bendin' the harm smartly in at the helbow as the lead is risin', an' then let the harm go hout agen w'en the lead 'as passed the perpendicular. Then, arter completin' two circles, slip the line from orf the 'and, just before the lead comes 'orizontal, let 'im fly for'ard into the water, release the coil o' line in the other 'and as 'e goes, gather up the slack w'en 'e reaches the bottom, an' call out the depth o' water w'en the ship passes over the spot w'ere the lead dropped – see?'

He then proceeded to demonstrate, and, stepping into the chains, whizzed the lead round his head with such ease and rapidity that his pupils were gulled into the belief that it was quite simple.

They all tried it in turn, but speedily found that a fourteen-pound weight on the end of twelve feet of thin line is not really a pleasant plaything. When they were at it by themselves the lead seemed horribly unwieldy and dangerous, and, as often as not, through sheer fright, they forgot to give the line at the right moment the vigorous twitch which brought the lead circling round in a beautiful curve. The consequence was that it would either descend perpendicularly from the air in close proximity to their heads, or else would fall with a jerk which nearly pulled their arms out of their sockets, neither of which alternatives was exactly pleasant. But they practised it steadily for half-an-hour daily, with the ship at sea and in harbour, and, notwithstanding a few misadventures like heaving the lead on to the forecastle in the midst of a group of men, or nearly braining themselves, they improved by degrees.

And so, in course of time, Pincher became rather less of a hobbledehoy and rather more of a seaman. Fresh air and regular exercise worked their usual wonders, for his pasty face became ruddy and his flabby muscles hard; while plenty of good beef, bread, and potatoes caused his spare figure to swell until he had to have his clothes let out by the ship's tailors. Moreover, he was no longer the meek and timid Pincher who had joined the ship a few months before. He was not behind-hand in using his fists, and had come to find his own level; and many of the youths who used to amuse themselves at his expense while he was still in the verdant stage now found their little attentions repaid with interest. Peter Flannagan, even, still an ordinary seaman, always in trouble, and rapidly going to the dogs, shunned him like the plague.

But Pincher, whatever his qualities, was no plaster saint. He did not drink to excess, and never became what is known as 'tin 'ats,'²⁴ but was not averse to visiting public-houses when he went ashore. There was really no reason why he shouldn't, provided he behaved himself.

Emmeline's influence, moreover, kept him straight in other ways; and on one occasion she saved him from getting into serious trouble for breaking his leave. It was rather a long story, involving an evening entertainment to which the girl had been invited, and to which Pincher dearly longed to accompany her. He would have done it, too, if he had been left to his own devices, quite regardless of the fact that all leave expired at seven o'clock that night, as the ship was due to go to sea at eight the next morning.

Now, breaking one's leave is a serious offence at all times; but doing it with the ship under sailing orders is far and away worse, and Emmeline knew this. So at six-forty P.M. precisely she sallied out with the unsuspecting Pincher on the pretext of going for a walk, took him towards the pier, and, before he could stop her, marched him straight up to a petty officer wearing a Belligerent cap-ribbon.

'D'you mind taking this young man off to the ship with you?' she asked. 'I'm afraid he's going to do something silly.'

''Ere!' Pincher exclaimed angrily, 'wot's up wi' you? Wot's it got ter do wi' you?'

The P.O. seemed rather surprised at the girl's request. 'Wot's 'e bin doin', miss?' he asked, touching his forelock.

'It's not what he's been doing,' Emmeline explained; 'it's what he's going to do. Says he's going to break his leave and get himself into trouble.'

Pincher looked round with the obvious intention of breaking away; but the P.O. nodded and grabbed him by the arm. 'You come along o' me, my son,' he remarked gruffly. 'Come on! Don't git kickin' up a shindy 'ere!'

'Interferin'!' Pincher blustered, wild with rage and struggling hard to get free. 'Interferin' – that's wot I calls it! Wot's it got ter do wi' you? Think becos you've got a killick²⁵ on yer arm yer can do wot yer likes, I suppose! – Has fur you, Miss Figgins, I'll' —

But the girl had discreetly turned her back, and was hurrying homewards.

'Come on!' growled the P.O., dragging him along. 'I reckons you ought to be jolly thankful to the gal for takin' such a hinterest in you. None o' that, now!' as Pincher began to struggle again. 'If you don't come quiet like I'll call the patrol an' have you harrested. S' welp me, I will! Come on! We've not got too much time on our 'ands!'

Pincher, very chastened, saw that further resistance was useless, and suffered himself to be conducted on board the boat without more trouble.

The ship was at sea for only a few days; and a week later, when he went to see Emmeline again, he arrived in a very repentant mood, carrying a bunch of violets as a peace-offering.

'Well,' she said severely, as he entered the shop, 'I didn't think you'd dare to come here again after what happened last Monday night.'

Pincher hung his head and got very red. 'Wouldn't dare!' he repeated. 'Why not?'

'You know very well why not,' she said, eyeing him. 'What's that you've got in your hand?'

'Wilets,' he said.

'Who for?'

'I got 'em fur you,' he stammered. 'Thought p'r'aps you'd like 'em.'

Emmeline's heart softened. 'Bill,' she said kindly, 'you know I didn't want to make a fool of you, don't you?'