picture hats. A reporter stood by the gangway taking notes of their
costumes. They fell to uttering the prettiest exclamations upon the
shipshapeness of everything on board. Mr. Harris saw the First
Officer inviting numbers of them to lean over the bulwarks and
observe a scar the old ship had received--or so he alleged--at
Trafalgar. "How interesting!" they cried.

Well, to be sure, it was interesting. Nelson himself--there was good
authority for this at any rate--had once stood on the _Egeria's_
poop; had leaned, perhaps, against the very rail on which Mr.
Harris's hand rested. . . . And the function went off very well.
The boys clambered down upon deck again, the band played--

"'Tis a Fine Old English Gentleman,"

And all gathered about the awning. Sir Felix, nobly expansive in a
buff waistcoat, cleared his throat and spoke of the Empire in a way
calculated to bring tears to the eyes. The prize-giving followed.

As it proceeded, Mr. Harris stole down the poop-ladder and edged his
way around the back of the crowd to the waist of the ship, where the
boys were drawn up with a few officers interspersed to keep
discipline. He arrived there just as Link Andrew returned from the
dais with two books--the boxing and gymnasium prizes. The boy was
foaming at the mouth.

"See, here--_Fights for the Flag!_ And, on top of it, _Deeds What
Won the Silly Empire!_ And the old blighter 'oped that I'd be a good
boy, and grow up, and win some more. For the likes of _him_, he
meant--Yuss, I _don't_ think! . . . Oh, hold my little hand and check