Mr. Harris saw the First
Officer inviting numbers of them to lean over the bulwarks and
observe a scar the old ship had received--or so he alleged--at
Trafalgar. "How interesting!" they cried.
Well, to be sure, it was interesting. Nelson himself--there was good
authority for this at any rate--had once stood on the _Egeria's_
poop; had leaned, perhaps, against the very rail on which Mr.
Harris's hand rested. . . . And the function went off very well.
The boys clambered down upon deck again, the band played--
"'Tis a Fine Old English Gentleman,"
And all gathered about the awning. Sir Felix, nobly expansive in a
buff waistcoat, cleared his throat and spoke of the Empire in a way
calculated to bring tears to the eyes. The prize-giving followed.
As it proceeded, Mr. Harris stole down the poop-ladder and edged his
way around the back of the crowd to the waist of the ship, where the
boys were drawn up with a few officers interspersed to keep
discipline. He arrived there just as Link Andrew returned from the
dais with two books--the boxing and gymnasium prizes. The boy was
foaming at the mouth.
"See, here--_Fights for the Flag!_ And, on top of it, _Deeds What
Won the Silly Empire!_ And the old blighter 'oped that I'd be a good
boy, and grow up, and win some more.
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