t came to them over the aerials only made them look sour. Great
journalists in London, their eyes almost popping from their heads at the
state of things on the sea and at the Front, thumped the merchant
mariner on the back in bluff and hearty editorials, calling him a
glorious shell-back and earning his silent contempt. The stark emphasis
placed upon his illiteracy and uncouthness did more harm than good. The
great journalists accepted the Navy and the Army on equal footing, but
they felt it necessary to placate the seaman with patronage. They were
too indolent to find out what manner of men they were who were going to
sea. And while the politicians fumbled, and the Navy and Army squabbled
with each other and with their allies, and the organized sentiment of
the world grew hysterical about Tommy and Jack, the seaman went on being
blown up at sea or rotting at anchor. And of the two the former was
invariably preferred. Mr. Spokesly, setting down the telescope to light
another cigarette, was following this train of thought, and he was
surprised to come on the conviction that an active enemy who tries to
kill you can be more welcome and estimable than a government without
either heart or brains who leaves you to sink in despair. Indeed, he
began to carry on a little train of thought of his own, this habit
having had more chance to grow since the London School of Mnemonics had
gone to the bottom with the _Tanganyika_ and a good many other things.
He said to himself: that's it. It isn't the work or the danger, it's the
monotony and feeling nobody gives a damn. Look at me. Now I'm on my own,
so to speak, gone out and started something myself, I feel twice as
chipper as I did when I was on that darned _Tanganyika_ and they didn't
seem to know where to send her or what to do with her when she got
there. I wonder how many ships we got, sailing about like her, and
gettin' sunk, and nobody any better off. They say there's ships carryin'
sand to Egypt and lumber to Russia. That's where it is. You trust a man
to boss the job and he can make a million for himself if he likes; you
don't mind. But if he muffs it, you want to kill him even if he is a
lord or a politician. I must say we got a bunch of beauties on the job
now. Good Lord!

It might be imagined that having found so fertile and refreshing a
theme, Mr. Spokesly would have abandoned everything else to pursue it to
the exceedingly bitter end. But he no longer felt that cankering