I was at length obliged
to confess that another youthful illusion was fading; prize-money
began to take its place in my mind along with the sea-serpent and
similar figures of marine mythology. I was frankly hurt; I ceased even
to raise my hat when passing the Admiralty Offices on the top of a
bus.
That was a month or two ago; everything is all right again now. I once
more experience the old pleasing thrill of emotion when riding down
Whitehall. I have come to see how ungracious my recent attitude was.
A chance meeting with Bunbury, late sub-Loot R.N.V.R. and a sometime
shipmate of mine--Bunbury and I had squandered our valour recklessly
together aboard the Tyne drifters in the great days when Bellona wore
bell-bottoms--sufficed to bring me head-to-wind.
In the course of conversation I referred to the non-fulfilment of our
early dreams; I spoke rather bitterly.
"And there are fourteen millions somewhere belonging to us," I
concluded mutinously.
Bunbury regarded me with pained surprise. "Really, old sea-dog," he
said, "this won't do. Never let the engine-oil of discontent leak into
the rum-cask of loyal memories, you know.
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