The old woman looked inside the basket. “Herrin’!” she said. “What did they cost?”
“Tuppence apiece,” replied the girl lightly, as she hung up her shawl.
“They was cheap,” said the old woman as she fell to larding the frying-pan.
But all things considered, perhaps they were not so very cheap after all.{89}
{89}
CHAPTER III THE NAVY-THAT-FLIES[A]
The Royal Naval Air Service found itself “over the other side” about the time that the shells of the British monitors began feeling for the hidden batteries of the Boche behind the Belgian coast.
The
“I can’t see where they’re pitching,” said the Navy-that-Floats, referring to the shells of the monitors bursting twelve miles away. “What about spotting for us, old son?{90}”
{90}
“That will I do,” replied the Navy-that-Flies. “And more also. But I shall have to wear khaki, because it’s done, out here; by everybody apparently. Even the newspaper reporters wear khaki. Also I must have the right machines and lots of ’em.”
“Wear anything you like,” replied the Navy-that-Floats, “as long as you can help us to hit these shore batteries. Only—because you wear khaki and see life, don’t forget you’re still the same old Navy as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.”
The Navy-that-Flies added “Amen,” and said that it wouldn’t forget. It garbed itself in khaki, but retained the ring and curl on the sleeve, and the naval cap (with the eagle’s wings in place of the crown and anchor in the badge), plus a khaki cap-cover. Wherever its squadrons were based they rigged a flagstaff and flew the White Ensign at the peak. They erected wooden huts and painted them service grey, labelling them “Mess-deck,” “Wardroom,” “Gunroom,” etc., as the case might be.
They divided the flights into port and starboard watches, and solemnly asked leave to “go ashore” for recreation. Those who strayed from the same stern paths of discipline suffered the same punishments as{91} the Navy-that-Floats. And at the conclusion of each
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