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  CHAPTER II.

  THE FRENCH INSTRUCTOR.

  SINGAPORE in the year 1919 was a very important naval station. Duringthe last six or seven years it had undergone great changes. Thepractical abandonment of a powerful war-squadron on the ChinaStation, owing to the understanding with Japan, had led to a declinein the greatness of Hong-Kong as a base. And what Hong-Kong had lostSingapore had gained--with compound interest. Henceforth that littleisland at the extreme south of the Malay Peninsula was to be thegreatest British naval station on the portals of the Pacific.

  Additional docks, capable of taking the largest battleships afloat,had been constructed, with smaller basins for submarines, of whichtwelve of the "C" class and six of the "D" type were stationed there.Bomb-proof sheds for seaplanes had been built, and the whole defendedby modern forts armed with the most up-to-date and powerful guns.

  At half-past eight on the morning following the event recorded in thefirst chapter a signal was made from the dockyard to the flagship ofRear-Admiral Maynebrace. It read: "Commander-in-Chief to 'Repulse':French instructor will proceed on board at four bells. Please sendboat to meet him at Kelang Steps."

  The receipt of this message was duly acknowledged and thencommunicated through the manifold yet proper channels to thegun-room, where the midshipmen received it with ill-concealeddisgust.

  They had planned a picnic along the well-kept country road that,fringed on either side by unbroken avenues of fruit-trees andluxuriant palms, led to the lofty Who Hen Kang. There they had hopedto revel in the gorgeous glades, eating pine-apples and coco-nutstill the services of the sick-bay staff might have to be called intorequisition. The prospect, ignoring the consequences of theirinjudicious appetites, was most alluring; till almost on the eve ofthe anticipated picnic came this disconcerting message that theFrench instructor was about to come off to the ship.

  French lessons with the temperature at ninety-eight in the shade!This ordeal was sufficient to crush even the resistance of apunch-ball, let alone a dozen irresponsible midshipmen.

  Such terrors did not exist for Rear-Admiral Maynebrace. He hadforgotten all the foreign languages that had been dinned into hishead forty years ago, and since the King's Regulations say nothingabout flag officers polishing up their French, Maynebrace felt noqualms. As it happened he had an invitation to meet the Governor.

  With due ceremony the Admiral was piped over the side and hismotor-pinnace landed him at the Kelang Steps. Somehow there was noconveyance in waiting, not even a rickshaw, so Maynebrace and hisflag-lieutenant had to walk.

  On his way through the dockyard the Admiral's attention was directedtowards an individual who, even amidst the quaintly-costumedinhabitants of Singapore, looked singularly bizarre.

  The person who attracted the notice of the mighty Maynebrace wastall, inclined to corpulence, and bowed in the shoulders. Hissun-dried face was partly concealed by a bristling black moustacheand an imperial. His hair, or at least what was visible outside a tophat of wondrous style, was grey.

  A white waistcoat, buttoned almost to bursting strain over his_embonpoint_ and fitting where it touched elsewhere, was cut deeplyat the throat, revealing a wide, turned-down collar and an enormousred silk tie. His frock coat was of a late nineteenth centurypattern; while his trousers, baggy fore and aft, were at one time"white ducks": now they were saffron colour. Sky-blue socks and browncanvas shoes completed the extraordinary "get-up."

  As this remarkable personage passed the Admiral he hesitated amoment, then removing his "stove-pipe" made a most elaborate bow, acompliment that Maynebrace returned by stiffly bringing his righthand up to the edge of his white-covered peaked cap.

  "Rummy codger," remarked the Admiral.

  "It's the French instructor, I believe, sir," said theflag-lieutenant.

  "H'm! fancy that on board my ship!"

  "Regulations, sir; paragraph 574d says: Whenever practicableinstruction in French is to be given to midshipmen by Frenchinstructors domiciled in British ports."

  "Well, well. Thank goodness I'm not a midshipman," ejaculatedMaynebrace, as he frantically signalled to a passing rickshaw-man.

  Whatever opinion the Frenchman had of Rear-Admiral Maynebrace hewisely kept it to himself, and trotting along with short jerky stepshe reached the place where the gig from H.M.S. "Repulse" awaited him.

  The coxswain could scarce suppress a grin as the instructor steppedinto the stern sheets. His surprise was still greater when the lattertook the yoke-lines and gave the order to "Pull you to ze ship!"

  Bending their backs to the supple ash oars the boats crew made thegig dart rapidly through the water. Some of them, possibly, wonderedwhat order the grotesque object in the stern-sheets would give as theboat ran alongside the flagship. As a matter of fact he gave none,but pulling at the wrong yoke-line he made the light gig collide bowson with the accommodation ladder, jerking the rowers backwards offtheir thwarts, and causing himself to sit ungracefully upon thegratings.

  Considering his corpulence the instructor picked himself up withagility and, not waiting for the boat to be brought properlyalongside, made his way from thwart to thwart, gaining the foot ofthe accommodation-ladder by way of the bows of the gig.

  At the head of the ladder he was met by the Officer of the watch.Greatly to the latter's disgust the instructor committed a mostheinous offence: he spat upon the sacred precincts of thequarter-deck and coolly threw his cigarette end upon the snowyplanks!

  So flabbergasted was the duty-lieutenant that he said not a word, andbefore he could recover his composure he was anticipated byFirst-lieutenant Garboard.

  Garboard was an officer who owed his position to influence ratherthan to merit. He shone in the reflected light of his parent, SirPeter Garboard, till lately Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth.

  He was one of those officers, luckily becoming rarer, who believe incast-iron discipline amounting almost to tyranny. He would bully andbrow-beat at the ship's-police when there were not enough defaultersto do the odd jobs requisitioned by the commander. When the childishpunishment known as 10_a_ (which consisted of compelling blacklistmen to stand on the lee side of the quarter-deck from 8 to 10 p.m.,to have their meals under the sentry's charge and to be deprived ofgrog and tobacco) was abolished, Garboard, then a junior lieutenant,asserted that the Service was going, to the dogs. He was neverhappier than when bully-ragging the men of his watch, under the pleaof efficiency.

  Wishing to air his French the first lieutenant remarked: "_Il faittres chaud, monsieur._"

  The instructor whisked off his stove-pipe hat and bowedceremoniously.

  "Show?" he repeated. "_Oui_, ver' fine show," and looked about him asif he expected to see a floating Agricultural Hall.

  "Blockhead!" muttered the discomfited Garboard as he beat a retreat,signing to a quarter-master to take the Frenchman below to themidshipmen's study.

  The dozen disconsolate youngsters were already mustered, and awaitedwith no great zest the arrival of their instructor; but their apathychanged when the Frenchman appeared. They seemed to scent a lark.

  But they were sadly mistaken if they hoped to rag that oddly-garbedindividual.

  "Sit you down," he said sternly. "Sit you down. You tink I haf notimparted ze instruction to ze midsheepmens before, eh? You make greatmistake. Ze first zat acts ze light-headed goat he go in ze capitan'sreport: zen, no leave for a whole veek."

  Taking up a piece of chalk the instructor wrote in a firm hand:--

  "_Mon frere a raison, mais ma soeur a tort._"

  "Now, zen," he continued, "zat young zhentleman with ze red hair. Howyou translate zat, eh?"

  Mr. Midshipman Moxitter's particular weakness was French translation.It had caused him hours of uneasiness at Osborne and Dartmouth. By asuccession of lucky shots he had foiled the examiners and had managedto scrape through in that particular subject.

  Upon being asked to translate the sentence, Moxitter stood up,squared his shoulders, and said solemnly:--

  "'My brother has reasons
that my sister's a tart,' sir."

  A roar of laughter, audible even in the captain's cabin, greeted thisinformation. The rest of the midshipmen nearly succumbed to apoplexy,while even the Frenchman was obliged to pull out his pink silkhandkerchief and press it tightly to his face.

  "We vill not dispute ze point, monsieur," he said after an awkwardpause. "Ze affairs of your family are of no concern to ze rest of zeclass, mais you are a good-for-nothing rascal, I say. If you nobetter are at ze rest of ze work on ze sheep zen I say you are ayoung rotter."

  For the full three-quarters of an hour the instructor bullied andbadgered the midshipmen in a manner that outvied LieutenantGarboard's treatment of the men. They had to submit: the alternativeof having their leave stopped by the captain put all idea ofresistance out of their heads. Finally he made each midshipman writein bold characters, "_Mais, que je suis sot,_" and sign thishumiliating confession.

  Gathering up the papers the instructor went on deck.

  "Will you take any refreshment before you leave?" asked the officerof the watch.

  "No, sare, with many tanks. Permit me: my card."

  The lieutenant took the proffered piece of pasteboard, and watchedthe Frenchman go over the side. The coxswain of the gig had beenpreviously cautioned not to allow the instructor to handle theyoke-lines again.

  As the boat headed for Kelang Steps the officer of the watch glancedat the instructor's card. It was written in a flowing hand:--

  "_Jean le Plaisant, professeur de literature et des langues,Singapore._"

  The second time the officer of the watch looked at the piece ofpasteboard more intently. He even tilted his cap on one side andscratched his closely-cut hair.

  "Fetch me the French dictionary from the wardroom," he ordered, andthe quarter-deck messenger hastened to carry out his instructions.

  Seizing the book the lieutenant hurriedly turned over the pages, thenlooked dubiously at the retreating gig, now out of hailing distance.

  "H'm," he muttered. "I'll speak to the commander. By Jove! Iwill."