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Updated: June 16, 2025
Walking in the Park yesterday with my young friend Tagg, and discoursing with him upon the next number of the Snob, at the very nick of time who should pass us but two very good specimens of Military Snobs, the Sporting Military Snob, Capt. Rag, and the 'lurking' or raffish Military Snob, Ensign Famish.
He paused, and looked at Stump. That broad-beamed navigator emptied his glass again, and gazed into it fixedly, apparently wondering why champagne was so volatile a thing. Tagg followed the skipper's example, but fixed his eyes on the bottle, perhaps in calculation.
In no amiable mood, therefore, the second officer went to the upper deck, where the skipper was growling his views to Tagg about the mysterious incident of the telegram.
"They had the air of expecting somebody. Did you think that? What do you say if we wait in the shadow a few minutes?" "Better mind our own business," said Tagg, but he did not protest further, and the two halted in the gloom of a huge warehouse.
"May I send an answer?" "Yes, from Suez." And the incident might have ended there had it not been brought into sharp prominence that evening. Mr. Tagg took the first watch, from eight o'clock to midnight. Under ordinary conditions, Royson, who was free until four in the morning, would have gone to his cabin and slept soundly.
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