The Honour of the Flag | Page 4

the cutter's artillery; it is
certain that they continued to load and discharge their guns as fast as
they could sponge them out; whilst from the river the cutter maintained
a rapid fire at Labour's Retreat. In an evil moment, temper getting the
better of Sloper's judgment, he loaded one of his pieces with stones,
and the gun was so well aimed that on Joe Westlake looking aloft he
beheld his beautiful flag of a fathom and a half in holes.
For some moments the old man-of-wars man stood staring up at his
wounded flag, idle with wrath and astonishment. He then in a voice of
thunder shouted: "Plum--Robins--Tuck! D' ye see what that there fired
little tailor's been and done? Why, junk me if he ha' n't shot our colour

through! Boys, load with ball; d' ye hear? Suffocate me, but he shall
have it back. Quick, my hearts, and go for him."
With ocean alacrity some round shot were got up, a gun was fired
point-blank at Labour's Retreat, and down came a chimney-stack,
amidst the cheers of the crew of the Tom Bowling.
"Now, then," roared old Joe, "over with our boat, lads, and board 'em!
Tommy, stay you here and let go the anchor"; and in a very few
minutes Plum and Robins were pulling Joe Westlake ashore.
Sloper and his party saw them coming and manfully stood their ground.
The three seamen, securing their boat, forced their way on to the lawn
and marched up to the tailor and his friends.
"What do you mean by firing at my cutter?" roared old Joe.
"What do you mean by knocking down my chimneys?" cried the tailor,
who was exceedingly pale.
"Who began it?" bawled Joe. "Who fired first? Who's bin and made
holes in that there flag of mine? Why, that's the flag of a British sailor,
you little withered thimble you; and durn ye, if you don't make me
instantly an humble apology and stump up with the cost of what ye've
injured, I'll skin ye!" and he threw himself into a very menacing
posture.
At this point one of the tailor's friends slunk off.
"My chimney-stack is worth more than your twopenny flag," shrieked
Sloper, maddened even into some temporary emotion of courage by the
insults of the old man-of-warsman.
"Say that again, will 'ee," said Joe. "Just sneer at that there flag again,
will 'ee."
The tailor was idiotic enough to repeat the affront, on which, and as
though a perfect understanding as to what was to be done subsisted

among the three sailors, old Joe, Plum, and Robins fell upon Sloper,
and, lifting him up in their arms, ran with him to the boat, into which
they flung him, paying not the least heed whatever to his cries for help
and for mercy, and instantly headed for the cutter, leaving the tailor's
friends white as milk and speechless with alarm near the cannon upon
the lawn.
When the boat reached the cutter, Plum jumped aboard and received
little Sloper from the hands of old Joe, making no more of the burthen
than had the tailor been a parcel, say, of a coat and waistcoat, or a pair
of trousers. Old Joe then actively got over the rail. He lifted the little
main-hatch, and Mr. Sloper was dropped into the space below, where
the darkness was so great that he could not see, and where there was
nothing to sit upon but Thames ballast.
"In boat, up anchor, and away with us!" said Joe Westlake.
The breeze was fresh, the cutter was always an excellent sailer, and in a
very short space of time she was running down Long Reach with Erith
and its adjacent shores out of sight, past the round of land where
Dartford creek is to be found. Joe Westlake then called a council.
Robins was at the tiller; Plum and Tuck came aft, and the four debated
at the helm.
"I've heerd," said old Joe, "of this tailor afore. His name's Sloper. I've
never larnt why he mounted them guns, or where the little rooting hog
got his pluck from to fire 'em. But there can be no shadder of a doubt,
mates, that his object in firing to-day was to insult that there flag."
He pointed with an immensely square forefinger to the masthead.
"Ne'er a shadder," said Plum.
"For why," continued old Joe, "did the smothered rag of a chap wait for
us to come right abreast afore firing?"
"Ah! that's it, ye see," exclaimed Bob Robins. "There ye've hit it, Mr.
Westlake."

"The little faggot's game," old Joe went on, "is as clear as mud in a
wineglass. He fires with blank cartridge; like as he'd say 'What'll you
do?' What did he want? That we should retarn his