It was one chance out of a hundred; but he made
it--he got to the shore, travelled down to the harbour where the
men-of-war were careening towards the reefs, unable to make the passage
out, and once again he tied a rope about him and plunged into the surf to
try for the admiral's ship. He got there terribly battered. They tell how
a big wave lifted him and landed him upon the quarter-deck just as big
waves are not expected to do. Well, like the hero in any melodrama of the
kind, he very prettily piloted monsieur the admiral and his fleet out to
the open sea."
She paused, smiling in an inscrutable sort of way, then turned and said
with a sudden softness in her voice, though still with the air of one who
wished not to be taken with too great a seriousness: "And, ladies and
gentlemen, the name of the ship that led the way was the 'Porcupine'; and
the name of the hero was Commander Galt Roscoe, R.N.; and 'of such is the
kingdom of heaven!'"
There was silence for a moment. The tale had been told adroitly, and with
such tact as to words that Roscoe could not take offence--need not,
indeed, as he did not, I believe, feel any particular self-consciousness.
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