Harris wandered back to the upper deck. It appeared to be
deserted; and Mr. Harris, unfolding his umbrella against the sun's
rays, wandered at will.
In the waist of the vessel, on the port side, he came upon a dais and
a baize-covered table with an awning rigged over them; and upon the
ship's Schoolmaster, who was busily engaged in arranging the
prize-books.
"Good afternoon, sir!" The Schoolmaster, affecting to be busy and
polite at the same time, picked out a book and held it up to view.
"_Smiles on Self Help_," he announced.
"You don't say so!" answered Mr. Harris, halting. "But--I mean--they
can't very well, can they?"
"_Eric, or Little by Little_, by the late Archdeacon Farrar.
My choice, sir: some light, you see, and others solid, but all _pure_
literature. . . . They value it, too, in after life. Ah, sir,
they've a lot of good in 'em! There's many worse characters than my
boys walking the world."
Mild Mr. Harris removed his glasses. "Are you talking like that from
force of habit?" he asked. "If so, I shall not be so much annoyed."
The Schoolmaster was fairly taken aback. He stared for a moment and
shifted his helm, so to speak, with a grin of intelligence and a
short laugh.
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