ter in the day came the hail: "_Spray_ ahoy! Mrs. Bruce would like
to come on board and shake hands with the _Spray_. Will it be
convenient to-day!" "Very!" I joyfully shouted.

On the following day Sir F. Carrington, at the time governor of
Gibraltar, with other high officers of the garrison, and all the
commanders of the battle-ships, came on board and signed their names
in the _Spray's_ log-book. Again there was a hail, "_Spray_ ahoy!"
"Hello!" "Commander Reynolds's compliments. You are invited on board
H.M.S. _Collingwood_, 'at home' at 4:30 P.M. Not later than 5:30 P.M."
I had already hinted at the limited amount of my wardrobe, and that I
could never succeed as a dude. "You are expected, sir, in a stovepipe
hat and a claw-hammer coat!" "Then I can't come." "Dash it! come in
what you have on; that is what we mean." "Aye, aye, sir!" The
_Collingwood's_ cheer was good, and had I worn a silk hat as high as
the moon I could not have had a better time or been made more at home.
An Englishman, even on his great battle-ship, unbends when the
stranger passes his gangway, and when he says "at home" he means it.

That one should like Gibraltar would go without saying. How could one
help loving so hospitable a place? Vegetables twice a week and milk
every morning came from the palatial grounds of the admiralty.
"_Spray_ ahoy!" would hail the admiral. "_Spray_ ahoy!" "Hello!"
"To-morrow is your vegetable day, sir." "Aye, aye, sir!"

I rambled much about the old city, and a gunner piloted me through the
galleries of the rock as far as a stranger is permitted to go. There
is no excavation in the world, for military purposes, at all
approaching these of Gibraltar in conception or execution. Viewing the
stupendous works, it became hard to realize that one was within the
Gibraltar of his little old Morse geography.

Before sailing I was invited on a picnic with the governor, the
officers of the garrison, and the commanders of the war-ships at the
station; and a royal affair it was. Torpedo-boat No. 91, going
twenty-two knots, carried our party to the Morocco shore and back. The
day was perfect--too fine, in fact, for comfort on shore, and so no
one landed at Morocco. No. 91 trembled like an aspen-leaf as she raced
through the sea at top speed. Sublieutenant Boucher, apparently a mere
lad, was in command, and handled his ship with the skill of an older
sailor. On the following day I lunched with General Carrington, the
governor,