“’Tain’t enough,’ ’e says, when he had climbed back. ‘Chips ’as got his bazaar lookin’ like a coal-hulk in a cyclone. We must adop’ more drastic measures.’ Off ’e goes to Number One and communicates with ’im. Number One got the old man’s leave, on account of our goin’ so slow (we were keepin’ be’ind the tramp), to fit the ship with a full set of patent supernumerary sails. Four trysails—yes, you might call ’em trysails—was our Admiralty allowance in the un’eard of event of a cruiser breakin’ down, but we had our awnin’s as well. They was all extricated from the various flats an’ ’oles where they was stored, an’ at the end o’ two hours’ hard work Number One ’e made out eleven sails o’ different sorts and sizes. I don’t know what exact nature of sail you’d call ’em—pyjama-stun’sles with a touch of Sarah’s shimmy, per’aps—but the riggin’ of ’em an’ all the supernumerary details, as you might say, bein’ carried on through an’ over an’ between the cutter an’ the forge an’ the pork an’ cleanin’ guns, an’ the Maxim class an’ the Bosun’s calaboose _and_ the paintwork, was sublime. There’s no other word for it. Sub-lime! “The old man keeps swimmin’ up an’ down through it all with the faithful Antonio at ’is side, fetchin’ him numerous splits. ’E had eight that mornin’, an’ when Antonio was detached to get ’is spy-glass, or his gloves, or his lily-white ’andkerchief, the old man would waste ’em down a ventilator. Antonio must ha’ learned a lot about our Navy thirst.” “He did.” “Ah! Would you kindly mind turnin’ to the precise page indicated an’ givin’ me a _résumé_ of ’is tattics?” said Mr. Pyecroft, drinking deeply. “I’d like to know ’ow it looked from ’is side o’ the deck.” “How will this do?” I said. “‘_Once clear of the land, like Voltaire’s Habakkuk_———”’ “One o’ their new commerce-destroyers, I suppose,” Mr. Pyecroft interjected. “‘—_each man seemed veritably capable of all—to do according to his will. The boats, dismantled and forlorn, are lowered upon the planking. One cries “Aid me!” flourishing at the same time the weapons of his business. A dozen launch themselves upon him in the orgasm of zeal misdirected. He beats them off with the howlings of dogs. He has lost a hammer. This ferocious outcry signifies that only. Eight men seek the utensil, colliding on the way with some many others which, seated in the stern of the boat, tear up and scatter upon the planking the ironwork which impedes their brutal efforts. Elsewhere, one detaches from on high wood, canvas, iron bolts, coal-dust—what do I know_?’” “That’s where ’e’s comin’ the bloomin’ _onjenew_. ’E knows a lot, reely.”