"
This harangue, admirably delivered, took Captain Crang between wind
and water. It was in vain he looked to his first officer for help.
Mr. Wapshott, still swaying by the poop rail, lifted and wagged an
admonitory forefinger.
"No use y'r asking me," said Mr. Wapshott. "_I_ didn't dine with the
Duke." He paused and asked with sudden inconsequent heartiness,
"Well, and how did you get along, you two?"
"If only I could tell!" murmured Captain Crang, passing a hand over
his brow.
"Not stuck-up, I hope? Affable? I'll bet any man sixpence he was
affable. Mind you, I don't speak from 'xperience," went on Mr.
Wapshott, more in sorrow than in anger. "_I_ don't dine out with
Admirals of the Fleet. The Blood Royal don't invite James Wapshott
to take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne, for auld lang syne,
my dear, for auld. . . . You'll excuse me, sir, some little emotion;
Robert Burns--Robbie--affecting beggar, mor' specially in his
homelier passages. A ploughman, sir; and from Ayrshire, damme!"
"'Wee sleekit crimson-tippit beastie--'"
"Are you addressing me, sir?" roared Captain Crang.
"Norratall. Field-mouse. _That_"--Mr. Wapshott drew himself up--
"_that's_ the 'stonishing thing about it."
"Go to your cabin, sir," the Captain commanded; "and you,
Mr. What's-your-name, come below and explain yourself."
Thus, not without dignity, he withdrew from the field.
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