*XIII.*
*THE TIZZY-SNATCHER.*
In the beginning he was an Assistant Clerk--which is a very small potatoindeed; his attainments in this lowly rank were limited to an extensiveand intimate knowledge of the various flavours of gum employed in thecomposition of envelopes. Passing straight from a private school, hebegan life in the Gunroom of a sea-going ship, and was afraid with agreat amazement.
The new conditions amid which in future he was to have his beingunfolded themselves in a succession of crude disillusionments. He foundhimself surrounded by Midshipmen: contemporaries, but, as they took careto remind him, men in authority--beings with vast, dimly conceivedresponsibilities: barbarous in their manners, incomprehensive of speech.To the pain of countless indignities was added the fear of personalchastisement (had he not read of such things?), and, having beendelicately nurtured, it is to be feared that the days of his earlierservice were not without unhappiness.
With the experience of a commission abroad, however, things began toassume their proper perspective. He became a Clerk, R.N., and blossomedinto the dignity of a frock-coat and sword at Sunday morning Divisions,whereby was no small balm in Gilead.
Your Midshipman differs but little in point of thoughtless cruelty fromhis brethren of "Quad" and school bench. But the mess-mates who(obedient to the boyish dictates of inhumanity, and for the good of hisimmortal soul) had chaffed and snubbed him into maturity, nowappreciated him for the even temper and dry sense of humour he acquiredin the process.
Having mastered the queer sea-oaths and jargon of a Gunroom, he learnedto handle an oar and sail a boat without discredit. The Sub. took him ondeck in the dog-watches, and punched into him the rudiments of the artof self-defence; and, lastly, under the tutorship of a kindly Paymaster,he came to understand dimly the inner workings of that vast and complexorganisation that has its seat in Whitehall, by whose mouths speak theLords of Admiralty.
His twenty-first birthday confronted him with the ordeal of anexamination, which, successfully passed, entitled him to a commission inHis Majesty's Fleet with the rank of Assistant Paymaster.
For the next four years he continued to live in the Gunroom, where, byreason of an alleged unholy intimacy with the King's Regulations andAdmiralty Instructions, his advice was commonly sought on questionspertaining to the Service. His mode of speech had become precise--asbefitted a wielder of the pen in life's battle, and one versed in themysteries of Naval Correspondence. The ship's Office was his kingdom,where he was Lord of the Ledgers, with a lack of tan on face and handsthat told of a sedentary life in confined spaces: not infrequently hewore glasses.
Some day he will become a Paymaster, warden of the money-chest, andanswerable for the pay, victualling, and clothing of every man on board.The years will bring three gold rings to his cuff, a Fleet Paymaster'sgrey hairs, and a nice perception between the digestible and otherwisein matters of diet.
* * * * *
The A.P. leaned back in his chair and threw down his pen: in the glareof the electric light his face looked white and tired. Beside him theChief Writer sat totalling a column of figures: on deck a bell struckmidnight.
"What d'you make it?" asked the A.P. wearily. The Writer named a sum.
"Penny out," replied the A.P. laconically, picking up his pen again.Outside the Office door, where the hammocks of the guard were slung, aMarine muttered in his sleep.
The two great ledgers that lay open on the desk contained the names ofevery man on board. They were duplicates, worked independently, and bya comparison of the two mistakes could be detected and rectified.Opposite the names were noted the credits of pay and allowances,adjusted for different charges, the period borne, and all particularsaffecting the victualling of each man.
"Ah!" The missing penny had been found. "It's in the account of thatconfounded Ordinary Seaman who broke his leave and got seven dayscells," said the A.P. "No. 215." He gave a sigh of relief and closedthe ledger. Perhaps he experienced something of the satisfaction anauthor might feel on writing the magic word "Finis." It was hiscreation, every word and figure of it, working as irrevocably as Destinytowards its appointed end: and on the morrow eight hundred men wouldfile past the pay tables, and in less than twenty minutes have received,in coin or postal orders, the balance of pay due to them.
"I'm going to turn in now," said the A.P. "We'll coin to-morrow."
Now the coins on a Paymaster's charge are of certaindenominations--usually sovereigns, half-sovereigns, florins, shillings,and sixpenny bits. Each man is paid, as a rule, to the nearestshilling, and the odd pence, if any, are carried forward to thesucceeding quarter. Thus the pay due to a man is, say, L3, 19s. 4d. Hereceives three sovereigns, a half-sovereign, four florins, and ashilling; the four pence are brought on to the next ledger. A Paymasteris thus enabled to foretell with some degree of accuracy the number ofcoins that he must demand from time to time.
Having coined the total amount to be paid out in wages, and ascertainedthe number of coins of each denomination required, the pay-trays werelaid on the desk in the Office. Each tray was made up of compartmentslarge enough to hold a man's pay.
The Paymaster divested himself of his coat, lit a pipe, and arrangedside by side the two bags containing sovereigns and half-sovereigns. TheA.P. similarly disposed of the florins and shillings, so that he couldreach them easily. They contained the exact total amount required forthe payment in the requisite coins.
"Ready, sir?" he asked.
"Right," said the Paymaster.
The Chief Writer read out the amount due to the first man. Quick as aflash the amount had clinked into the first division of the tray, bothofficers making mental calculations as to the coins required. For thenext half-hour the only sounds in the Office were the voice of the ChiefWriter and the tinkle of the coins as each one was slipped into itscompartment. In an incredibly short time the piles of gold and silverhad melted away; as a tray was filled it was placed in a box and lockedup in readiness for the payment. The three faces grew anxious as thepiles dwindled and the number of empty compartments lessened.... Thelast total was reached: the Paymaster threw down two sovereigns; theA.P. added a florin and a shilling. The bags were empty: would it "panout"?
"Two pounds three," read out the Chief Writer, craning his neck to seethe result.
"Thank the Lord," murmured the A.P.
* * * * *
On the quarter-deck, facing aft, the ship's company were mustered:seamen, stokers, artisans, cooks, and police, one after another, astheir names were called by the A.P., stepped briskly up to the paytable, where the Captain and the Commander stood, scooped their wagesinto their caps and hurried away. The Marines followed, receiving theirpay in their hands, with a click of the heels and a swinging salute.
At the break of the forecastle an Ordinary Seaman stood regarding a fewsilver coins in his grimy palm. Having broken his leave during themonth and been awarded cells in consequence, he had receivedconsiderably less pay than usual--a penalty he had not foreseen and didnot understand.
"Bloomin' tizzy-snatcher," he muttered, slipping the coins into histrousers-pocket.
He referred to the A.P.