HOLDING MAST
By Harriet Welles
Author of " Anchors Aweigh "
ILLUSTRATION BY II.
9R0M the register of the
United States Navy the
wooden ships are gone—
with John Paul Jones, De-
catur, and F a r r a g u t to
some serene harbor beyond
the most distant horizon line—and of the
ship life of their day but one custom per-
sists.
It was the rule on those old sloops-of-
war that any sailor under arrest, awaiting
sentence and having a complaint to make
or a grievance to air, took his stand by the
mainmast, and asked to speak with the
captain; this was his right.
The white sails are gone. On our great
steel ships no sign of them remains, but
every day, • at a given hour, on each
dreadnought, battleship, cruiser, and de-
stroyer of the United States Navy the
captain "holds mast."
Seven bells.
On the quarter-deck of the gray dread-
nought anchored in the harbor the morn-
ing sun gleamed on a Kttle group of sailors
and petty officers who, as "witnesses,"
gathered and formed in line for the morn-
ing's mast.
Around the great triple gun-turret the
master-at-arms marched the prisoners,
two by t%o, and lined them up at right
angles with the witnesses.
"Don't be forgettin' that you steps for-
ward, and takes off your cap, when your
name's called, and don't look scared to
death—there ain't no can-o-buUs pres-
ent," admonished the master-at-arms.
"Say what you've got to say, and when
you're ordered to ' stand aside,' put your
cap on, and step back into line. This
ain't no trial! It's just a chance for you
to tell your side of things."
The prisoners eyed him silently—ex-
cepting one youth who inquired of his
neighbor in a surly whisper what was
"th' use of tellin' the captain anything?
Nuthin' happens to him like happens to
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J. PECK
us !"—then transferred their attention to
the yeoman with the report-book, who
took his place just as the executive officer
crossed the deck and knocked at the door
of the captain's cabin.
"Mast is ready, sir," announced the
executive, and waited, while the captain
finished signing some papers and took up
his cap. ^
"I've gone over the case of that fellow
who takes drugs," said the executive;
"we've done all we can for him. The
doctor says it's no use—he hasn't the
backbone to quit; let him go ashore, and
the same thing happens. Big mast this
morning—but the other cases are the
usual things."
The captain nodded. " I suppose when
you have one thousand and thirty men,
of the average age of twenty-one years,
you can expect a fair amount of ingenuity
for getting into trouble," he remarked as,
followed by an orderly, they stepped out
on the quarter-deck.
"Attention! Salute!" commanded the
master-at-arm to the prisoners.
The captain returned the salute and,
pausing, scanned the yeoman's report-
book. "Carry on," he said.
"James Collins. Charged with being
asleep while on duty. Reported by the
boatswain's mate in charge of the watch,"
read the yeoman.
The boy stepped forward and took off
his cap.
"Anything to say, CoUins? What
ailed you?" asked the captain.
"Nuthin', sir," the sailor answered.
"This is my first cruise and I just can't
hold me eyes open—went to sleep standin'
right up straight! I ain't never been
near the ocean before, and I'm perishin'
to sleep—all the time."
"If every man went to sleep when he
felt like it how long do you think this ship
would last?" asked the captain; "I'll
have to give you a summary court, Col-
lins, and remember this: if ever you are
439
440 Holding Mast
given an important post—in was: times—
and you sleep on it, you are liable to re-
ceive the severest punishment that can be
inflicted."
"Stand aside," the master-at-arms or-
dered. Collins stepped back into line.
"Thomas Jenkins, Carl Jones, coal-
passers, reported by the water-tender for
fighting," read the yeoman.
"What were you fighting about?"
asked the captain.
Jenkins, burning with righteous wrath,
answered: "Every time I gets the bright
work all shined up, he comes in and turns
on the steam! Says 'he's tryin' out the
valves,' and when I asks him why don't
he try 'em out when the brass work's
dirty—he laughed!"
"Well, Jones?" asked the captain.
Jones grinned.unhappily. "Get tired
o' seein' him forever at his polishin'—
thought I'd give him something to polish
{or. He hit me first," asserted Jones,
grasping for a straw.
The witness interrupted.
"They fights all the time," he volun-
teered virtuously. " I seen 'em fightin'
the other day because Jenkins told Jones
no man that had red hair could ever be
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a good engineer. Said the admiral said
so."
Jenkins flushed. "Aw, can't you take
a joke?" he growled.
"How old are you, Jenkins—and you,
Jones ? " asked the captain, and smiled at
the answers of "Twenty."
"You can punish them this time by let-
ting them shake hands for two hours, on
the quarter-deck," said the captain.
"Next," commanded the executive,
and a white-faced man stepped forward
in answer to the name of William Clark.
"Reported by the chief master-at-arms
for taking cocaine," read the yeoman.
The captain glanced sharply at the
trembling hand raised to remove the white
cap.
" Is this true ? " he asked.
The man nodded miserably.
"How and where did you form this
habit?" asked the captain.
" I got to going in a crowd in Harlem
three years ago, and some of the girls took
the stuff—said it was great and wanted me
to try it," said Clark in a low voice; "I
enlisted to get away from them and quit
it; but every time I go ashore—I just
can't help buying more."
' Mark Simmons. Reported by the officer of the deck for
 Holding Mast 441

The captain's face clouded, but his for vaccination: while a third vocifer-
voice was kind. ously defended his pastime of "sleeping
"I'm sorry for you, Clark," he said. in a life-boat" when he should be work-
"Unless you are man enough to break ing.
this habit and start fresh, there isn't any Stealing, the most contemptible sin in
future for you anywhere. We can't keep the community life aboard ship, was se-
you here. The navy isn't a reform- verely dealt with.
school, and nothing spreads as rapidly as The last prisoner was reached.
a bad habit. I wish I could help you— "Mark Simmons. Reported by the
but this is a time when you must help officer of the deck for overstaying liberty
yourself. Cocaine is the entrance-ticket eight hours," read the yeoman.
to the insane-asylum and the gutter—and The captain looked carefully through
to nothing else." the record.
The list proceeded. "Smoking out of "First report against you in the three
hours" was the most popular
cause for getting on the report,
although overstaying liberty—
while communing with long-lost
friends from other ships—ran it
a close race.
One exuberant youth—re-
ported for "continued spitting
on the deck "—announced belHg-
erently that he "couldn't work
if he couldn't spit"; another
frankly admitted an aversion

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overstaying liberty eight houi's," read the yeoman.

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442 Holding Mast
years you've been on this ship, Simmons.
What kept you?"
The sailor shook his head.
" Were you drunk ? " asked the captain.
Again the dumb head-shake.
"Anything to say?" suggested the cap-
tain.
"No, sir," answered Simmons faintly.
The captain hesitated, then turned
away.
"No more reports," announced the
yeoman, closing the book and bundling
his papers together.
"Attention!" commanded the master-
at-arms to the prisoners.
The captain started across the deck,
paused, and returned.
"Simmons—one moment," he said to
the last prisoner.
The sailor stepped back and lifted his
heavy eyes to the captain's face.
"What is it, Simmons—something you
are afraid to tell?" asked the captain.
"My wife, sir," said the boy, and swal-
lowed hard. "The baby came yesterday
morning . . . we had a civilian doctor
. . . but he was drunk! They think we
people in the navy haven't much money,
and aren't here long . . . so it don't
matter how they treat us . . . I did all
I could . . . but she had kind of chills
. . . I came back as soon as I dared leave
her."
His shoulders shook; he leaned his face
against his blue sleeve.
"Good lord, man! Why didn't you
tell that when you came aboard ? Is any
one with your wife—is her home in this
city?" demanded the captain.
" She's all alone—in a lodging-house.
Her folks live in San Francisco," said
Simmons.
The captain turned. "Ask Dr. Knapp
to come here," he said to the orderly.
And to the master-at-arms: "Erase that
report against Simmons; he's going ashore
—with theMoctor."
"Ay, ay, sir!" answered the master-
at-arms, 'ffcing the prisoners. "Right
about! • Forward—march!" he com-
manded.
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Eight bells struck.
Above their clanging clamor came the
clear notes of the bugle "sounding mess
gear," and from the deck below arose a
great clattering of plates. The band—
which plays every day during the crew's
dinner hour—sailed valiantly into the
opening bars of the'' Anvil Chorus.'' Fac-
tory whistles in the near-by city shrieked
their noon-day greetings, above the deep
booming of bells.
"My wife's been alone for five hours,"
said Simmons miserably.
Late that night the captain finished his
writing and went over the doctor's report.
Mrs. Simmons and the baby had been
moved to a hospital and were comfort-
able. Simmons, tremulous with grati-
tude, had returned to the ship and was
sleeping the sleep of exhaustion, two decks
below.
The captain leaned back in his chair;
facing him, on the sheK above, a wonian
smiled from a photograph—an old photo-
graph, judging by the enormous sleeves
and diminutive hat. How clearly he re-
membered the day that photograph was
taken—just before he started on a Pacific
cruise.
How they had laughed, and hoped, and
planned, even to deciding on the college
that "junior" should eventually honor by
his presence—with Wellesley as an alter-
native—if fate should prove disobliging.
"All was well," and he had cabled from
Valparaiso; and even if he had worried
dufitig those days of cruising through the
Straits of Magellan he had been pitifully
unprepared for the cablegram awaiting
him at Montevideo. Five words—yet
they told him that never again would he
need to hurry home. . . .
The captain sighed. For a second the
port hole framed the stretching road of
the long years—but somewhere—around
a little turn—she would be waiting for
him, the baby in her arms
The captain smiled back at the photo-
graph and, ringing for the orderly,
switched off the desk lights.
 HIS FATHER'S
By Armistead C. Gordon
Author of " M a j e , " " Oinmirandy," etc.
I L L U S T R A T I O N BY G E O R G E
jjHERE was a big field near
his old home where he and
the other boys, black and
white, had played "round
cat" and "chermany" in
the s u m m e r s before the
war and had set their rabbit-traps in
seasons of frost and snow. . It lay near the
edge of a wood, which was now cool and
umbrageous with midsummer leafiness.
The wood had furnished a fine resting-
place for the boys when their games were
ended; and its giant crees and dense un-
dergrowth had been imagined fortresses
and robbers' dens in those days. Beyond
the wood lay the Dragon Swamp, with its
dark and unexplored recesses and jungles
of intertwisted vines. I t was a place of
shuddering stories about runaway negroes
and "patter-rollers " and murders and un-
solved mysteries.
On the side of the field nearest the great
house once stood a row of negro cabins,
built of unshaped logs, whose interstices
were chinked with mud and whose stick
chimneys were "daubed" with the same
material. They were snug and comfort-
able enough in winter and cool, with open
door and unglazed window, in the sum-
mer-time, when the little slab-paled gar-
dens in front smiled amid bowers of great
nodding sunflowers and overflowed with
succulent vegetables.
His earliest memories of the " quarters "
were interwoven and embroidered with
the kindly affections of their dusky deni-
zens. There were no ginger cakes quite
so good as those which he had eaten on the
rough benches at their doors. No later
watermelons ever had "meat" so red and
ripe as theirs. No "pulled" molasses
candy was so sweet. And the cold fried
chicken legs and biscuits were unforget-
able.
When he came back he found the field
overgrown with sassafras bush and riot-
ous vines and tangled briers. The cabins
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FLAG
WRIGHT
had tumbled down and were deserted.
Where the sunflowers had once lifted their
gorgeous disks above the snaps and col-
lards flourished a pestflent growth of jim-
son-weeds unconiined by any slab-pal-
ings. Broom-sedge possessed what had
been a buckwheat patch near Uncle Or-
rin's cabin at the end of the row. He re-
membered the bees in the buckwheat blos-
soms and their hives under the scraggy
peach-tree, and how he had watched them
on lucent summer mornings long ago.
The "bee-gums" had vanished; and Or-
rin's cabin, like the others, was a wreck.
Orrin himself, on whose knees he had sat
when a little chap and listened to won-
derful tales of the "varmints" and the
"creeturs," had long since become only
one of the memories of his boyhood.
He traversed the brier-grown and al-
most invisible pathway, once so familiar,
that led from the quarters to the mansion-
house, and walked past the stables where
the horses had been kept. Their stalls
were empty and the weather-boarding
was ripped off in places. The corn-crib
door hung open on a broken hinge.
His father had fallen in the Seven Days'
Battles and his mother had soon followed.
Thoughts of them impelled him in the di-
rection of the brick-walled graveyard be-
yond the house from which the marble
tombstones were visible above its green
carpet of periwinkle vines. As he ap-
proached the mansion, in which five gen-
erations of his people had lived their quiet
and uneventful lives, a sense of the futili-
ties of existence overwhelmed him. He
paused and looked beyond the broken
hedge, and saw the gravestones grim and
silent under the summer sun.
There was no one in the house to bid
him welcome, no sign of life or movement
about the place. The front door gaped
open and the porch, where clambering
tea-roses had filled the air of long ago
with fragrance, was dropping down. The
443