Now listen to me. Two years
ago you and I wore the wavy gold braid of a valiant life; we surged
along irresistibly in the wake of NELSON; we kept the watch assigned.
Does not your bosom very nearly burst with pride to call those days to
mind? It does. What then? Has it never once occurred to you that the
last remaining link between us and the stirring past is this very
prize-money you are so eager to soil with the grimy clutch of avarice?
Don't you realize that this alone exists to keep our memory green in
the minds of our old leaders at Whitehall? Picture the scene as it is.
Someone mentions the word 'prize-money.' Immediately the Lords of
the Admiralty reach for their record files and begin turning over
the pages. They come upon the names of John Augustus Plimsoll--
yourself--and Horatio Bunbury--me. 'Ah,' they exclaim fondly, 'two of
our old gunroom veterans--when shall we look upon their like again?'
Then they get up and go out to lunch.
"A month or so later the same thing occurs; once more our names leap
out from the type-written page. 'Brave boys,' they murmur, 'gallant
lads! What should we have done without them in the dark days? They
shall have their prize-money this very--why, bless my soul, if it
isn't one o'clock!'
"Surely," pursued Bunbury earnestly, "you appreciate the fine
sentimental value of this one last tie? As long as our prize-money is
in the keeping of the Service we can still think of it with intimate
regard; we can still call ourselves BEATTY'S boys and hide our blushes
when the people sing 'Rule, Britannia.
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