“When Antonio came back with the whisky-an’-soda, he was told off to swing the ’ammick in slow time, an’ that massacritin’ small-arm party went on with their oratorio. The Sergeant had been kindly excused from participating an’ he was jumpin’ round on the poop-ladder, stretchin’ ’is leather neck to see the disgustin’ exhibition an’ cluckin’ like a ash-hoist. A lot of us went on the fore an’ aft bridge an’ watched ’em like ‘Listen to the Band in the Park.’ All these evolutions, I may as well tell you, are highly unusual in the Navy. After ten minutes o’ muckin’ about, Glass ’ere—pity ’e’s so drunk!—says that ’e’d had enough exercise for ’is simple needs an’ he wants to go ’ome. Mr. Ducane catches him a sanakatowzer of a smite over the ’ead with the flat of his sword. Down comes Glass’s rifle with language to correspond, and he fiddles with the bolt. Up jumps Maclean—’oo was a Gosport ’ighlander—an’ lands on Glass’s neck, thus bringin’ him to the deck, fully extended. “The old man makes a great show o’ wakin’ up from sweet slumbers. ‘Mistah Ducane,’ he says, ‘what is this painful interregnum?’ or words to that effect. Ducane takes one step to the front, an’ salutes: ‘Only ’nother case of attempted assassination, Sir,’ he says. “‘Is that all?’ says the old man, while Maclean sits on Glass’s collar button. ‘Take him away,’ ’e says, ‘he knows the penalty.’” “Ah! I suppose that is the ‘invincible _morgue_ Britannic in the presence of brutally provoked mutiny,’” I muttered, as I turned over the pages of M. de C. “So, Glass, ’e was led off kickin’ an’ squealin’, an’ hove down the ladder into ’is Sergeant’s volupshus arms. ’E run Glass forward, an’ was all for puttin’ ’im in irons as a maniac. “‘You refill your waterjacket and cool off!’ says Glass, sittin’ down rather winded. ‘The trouble with you is you haven’t any imagination.’ “‘Haven’t I? I’ve got the remnants of a little poor authority though,’ ’e says, lookin’ pretty vicious. “‘You ’ave?’ says Glass. ‘Then for pity’s sake ’ave some proper feelin’ too. I’m goin’ to be shot this evenin’. You’ll take charge o’ the firin’-party.’ “Some’ow or other, that made the Sergeant froth at the mouth. ’E ’ad no more play to his intellects than a spit-kid. ’E just took everything as it come. Well, that was about all, I think…. Unless you’d care to have me resume my narrative.” We resumed on the old terms, but with rather less hot water. The marine on the floor breathed evenly, and Mr. Pyecroft nodded.