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"She's Uncle Bill's ward, and by way of being rather fond of Podgie, I fancy at least, she used to be, I know. But the silly old ass won't go near her since he lost his foot." Mouldy Jakes dried his tooth-brush, and, fumbling in his trouser pocket, produced a penny. "Heads or tails?" he queried. "Tails why?" "It's a head. Bags I the lower berth."
The door opened, and a clean-shaven, smiling countenance, followed by a pair of broad shoulders, appeared cautiously in the opening. Standish stared at the apparition, and then rose with a grin of welcome. "Why!" he said, "Podgie, of all people! Come in, you old blighter!" The visitor entered. "How goes it, Bunje?" he said. "I saw you with your missus just now, so I hid I'm in the next cabin."
"If he has really developed a neurotic view of his injury, as you imply," continued the older man, "it's no use my inviting him, because he would only refuse to come." "You'll have to work it somehow," replied his nephew. "Sea voyages aren't safe enough just now we'd never forgive ourselves if we let Cecily go and anything happened to her or Podgie either," he added grimly.
The door to the corridor was half-open, and a tall figure in Naval uniform who was passing at that moment glanced in, hesitated, and filled the doorway with his bulk. A slow smile spread over his face and showed his white, even teeth. It was a very infectious grin. "How goes it, Podgie?" he said quietly. The King's Messenger looked up. "Hallo!" he retorted. Then came recognition.
Amateur deep sea yachtsman before the war. He's awfully gone on Cecily." "'Counts for him hanging round your neck, I s'pose," commented the student of human nature. "Sort of 'dweller-near-the-rose' business. Heave that suit-case over unless you can find any more of your cousin's admirers sculling about the country. P'raps they'll load this truck for us and shove it to the boat. Ah, here's Podgie!"
The other turned, helping himself to soda-water. "Lor', yes, and you got spliced, too, Bunje!" He contemplated the Benedict over the rim of his tumbler with the whimsical faint curiosity with which the bachelor Naval Officer regards one of his brethren who has passed beyond the Veil. "Yes." For a moment Standish assumed a thoughtful expression. Then he looked up, smiling. "What about you, Podgie?
Podgie d'Auvergne had fallen into a habit of talking aloud to himself. It is a peculiarity of men given to introspective thought who spend much time alone. Since the wound early in the war that cost him the loss of a foot he had found himself very much alone, though the role of "Cat that walked by Itself" was of his own choosing.
"Good lad, Podgie," observed Thorogood reflectively to his companion, as he proceeded to undress. Mouldy Jakes, energetically brushing his teeth over the tiny washing-basin, grunted assent. "Ever met my cousin Cecily?" pursued Thorogood. "No, I don't think you did: she was at school when we stayed with Uncle Bill before the war." "Shouldn't remember her if I had," mumbled the gallant.
"The Gnome Carteret-Jones from Portsmouth, with orders mm mm Stiletto," Moorshed answered through the megaphone in a high, whining voice, rather like a chaplain's. "Who?" was the answer. "Carter et Jones." "Oh, Lord!" There was a pause; a voice cried to some friend, "It's Podgie, adrift on the high seas in charge of a whole dee-stroyer!"
Another voice echoed, "Podgie!" and from its note I gathered that Mr. Carteret-Jones had a reputation, but not for independent command. "Who's your sub?" said the first speaker, a shadow on the bridge of the Dirk. "A gunner, at present, Sir. The Stiletto broken down turns over to us." "When did the Stiletto break down?"
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