Here it is," and she handed Sir Charles the goldmohur. "And he says
if he doesn't get an honest shilling in exchange for it he'll have the law
on him."
E.V.L.
* * * * *
THE KNELL OF THE NAVY.
Spooner is a remarkable fellow. His duties on board this ship are to fly
once a week off the deck, revolve twice round the masts and sink thankfully
down into the water, where we haul him out by the breeches and hang his
machine up to dry on the fo'c's'le. By performing these duties four times a
month, he leads us to believe he is preparing the way for the ultimate
domination of Air Power. We of the Navy are obsolete, and our hulls are
encrusted with the Harwich barnacle.
The argument proceeds on these lines: One day there will be another
war--perhaps to-morrow. We of the Navy, coalless and probably by that time
rumless as well, will rush blindly from our harbours, our masts decked with
Jolly Rogers and our sailors convulsed with hornpipe, to seek the enemy.
But, alas, before the ocean spray has wetted our ruby nostrils we shall
find ourselves descended upon from above and bombed promiscuously in the
middle watch.
It will be all over inside a nautical second. The sky will be black with
hostile aircraft, and there will be lead in the stew and bleeding bodies in
the bilge.
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