body could tell it on you,” said he, as though it were some form of liquor.
I thanked him, as I always do, at this particular stage, with his compatriots: not so much perhaps for the compliment to myself and my poor country, as for the revelation (which is ever fresh to me) of Britannic self-sufficiency and taste. And he was so far softened by my gratitude as to add a word of praise on the American method of lacing sails. “You're ahead of us in lacing sails,” he said. “You can say that with a clear conscience.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “I shall certainly do so.”
At this rate, we got along swimmingly; and when I rose to retrace my steps to the Fowlery, he at once started to his feet and offered me the welcome solace of his company for the return. I believe I discovered much alacrity at the idea, for the creature (who seemed to be unique, or to represent a type like that of the dodo) entertained me hugely. But when he had produced his hat, I found I was in the way of more than entertainment; for on the ribbon I could read the legend: “H.M.S. Tempest.”
“I say,” I began, when our adieus were paid, and we were scrambling down the path from the look-out, “it was your ship that picked up the men on board the Flying Scud, wasn't it?”
“You may say so,” said he. “And a blessed good job for the Flying-Scuds. It's a God-forsaken spot, that Midway Island.”
“I've just come from there,” said I. “It was I who bought the wreck.”
“Beg your pardon, sir,” cried the sailor: “gen'lem'n in the white schooner?”
“The same,” said I.
My friend saluted, as though we were now, for the first time, formally introduced.
“Of course,” I continued, “I am rather taken up
