He hates us back, you bet, and has hated us from the moment
he set foot on deck, five years ago . . . Whitechapel-reared, I
believe. . . . Yet fond of the sea in his way. Once shipped on the
yacht he'll behave like an angel. But here on board he's like a
young beast in a trap."
V.
Mr. Harris mooned away to the poop-deck, from the rail of which he
watched the guests arriving. As Sir Felix's gig was descried putting
off from the shore, the boys swarmed up the ratlines and out on the
yards, where they dressed ship very prettily. A brass band in the
waist hailed his approach with the strains of "Rule, Britannia!"
At the head of the accommodation-ladder a guard of honour welcomed
him with a hastily rehearsed "Present Arms!" and the boys aloft
accompanied it with three shrill British cheers. The dear old
gentleman gazed up and around him, and positively beamed.
By this time a crowd of boats had put off, and soon the guests came
pouring up the ladder in a steady stream. There were ladies in
picture hats. A reporter stood by the gangway taking notes of their
costumes. They fell to uttering the prettiest exclamations upon the
shipshapeness of everything on board.
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