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"How is young Morton?" asked the First Lieutenant. No one appeared to know, for the enquiry went unanswered. The tall figure pacing restlessly to and fro stopped and eyed the First Lieutenant. "Tweedledee's killed," he said dully. "Dead..." He resumed his thoughtful walk and a moment later repeated the last word in a low voice, reflectively. "Dead ..." "I know," said the First Lieutenant.
Thorogood's battery was on the disengaged side of the ship during the earlier phases of the action. Across the deck they heard the guns of Tweedledee's battery open fire with a roar, and then the cheering of the crews, mingled with the cordite fumes, was drowned by an ear-splitting detonation in the confined spaces of the mess deck, followed by a blinding flash of light.
"When I go away pulling," said the First Lieutenant, apparently addressing a watchful-eyed gull volplaning past with outstretched wings, "when I go away pulling, I like to get straight into the boat, shove off and start right in. It's this hanging about " "It's Tweedledee's fault," protested the coxswain bitterly. "I wrote it down last night on the slate.
Their jerrymandered electoral methods are like wool in their ears, and the rejection of Tweedledum for Tweedledee is taken as a "mandate" for Tweedledee's distinctive brand of political unrealities.... Is this an incurable state of things?
The July fetes occupy, as you may imagine, a considerable part of their columns just now, and it is amusing to follow them one by one; to read Tweedledum's praise, and Tweedledee's indignation to read, in the Debats how the King was received with shouts and loyal vivats in the Nation, how not a tongue was wagged in his praise, but, on the instant of his departure, how the people called for the "Marseillaise" and applauded THAT. But best say no more about the fete.
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