Just before the tension became unendurable, he looked
at his junior for a lead. “What—what
are you going to do about it, Johnny—eh?”
“Well, if you don’t want him, I’m
going to ask this young gentleman to breakfast, and
then we’ll make and mend clothes till the umpires
have decided.”
Captain Panke flung out a hand swiftly.
“Come with me,” said Captain Malan.
“Your men had better go back in the dinghy to—their—own—ship.”
“Yes, I think so,” said Moorshed, and
passed out behind the captain. We followed at
a respectful interval, waiting till they had ascended
the ladder.
Said the sentry, rigid as the naked barometer behind
him: “For Gawd’s sake! ’Ere,
come ’ere! For Gawd’s sake! What’s
’appened? Oh! come ’ere an’
tell.”
“Tell? You?” said Pyecroft.
Neither man’s lips moved, and the words were
whispers: “Your ultimate illegitimate grandchildren
might begin to understand, not you—nor
ever will.”
“Captain Malan’s galley away, Sir,”
cried a voice above; and one replied: “Then
get those two greasers into their dinghy and hoist
the blue peter. We’re out of action.”
“Can you do it, Sir?” said Pyecroft at
the foot of the ladder. “Do you think it
is in the English language, or do you not?”
“I don’t think I can, but I’ll try.
If it takes me two years, I’ll try.”
There are witnesses who can testify that I have used
no artifice. I have, on the contrary, cut away
priceless slabs of opus alexandrinum. My
gold I have lacquered down to dull bronze, my purples
overlaid with sepia of the sea, and for hell-hearted
ruby and blinding diamond I have substituted pale
amethyst and mere jargoon. Because I would say
again “Disregarding the inventions of the Marine
Captain whose other name is Gubbins, let a plain statement
suffice.”
After the sack of the City, when Rome
was sunk to a name,
In the years when the Lights were darkened,
or ever Saint Wilfrid came.
Low on the borders of Britain, the ancient
poets sing,
Between the cliff and the forest there
ruled a Saxon king.
Stubborn all were his people, a stark
and a jealous horde—
Not to be schooled by the cudgel, scarce
to be cowed by the sword;
Blithe to turn at their pleasure, bitter
to cross in their mood,
And set on the ways of their choosing
as the hogs of Andred’s Wood ...
They made them laws in the Witan, the
laws of flaying and fine,
Folkland, common and pannage, the theft
and the track of kine;
Statutes of tun and of market for the
fish and the malt and the meal,
The tax on the Bramber packhorse and the
tax on the Hastings keel.
Over the graves of the Druids and over
the wreck of Rome
