Free A Ship's Tale by N. Jay Young

that once made them skim proudly over the waves. The sight of them caught at my heart. By God, I thought, soon one of them will have her keel in deep water again! Somehow.
    I came to myself and remembered my errand. I gave a salute to the old hulks, climbed back into the car, and continued on my way to the orphanage. Pulling up by the building, I could see it had once been a stately and elegant mansion. As I climbed out of the car, a man walked over to meet me. He looked for all the world like some sort of vampire with his thin form and pasty colour. His formal black suit, sombre but costly looking, only served to reinforce that Dracula impression.
    â€œI am Mr. O’Connell, the headmaster here,” he said in a haughty tone, without offering his hand.
    â€œFlynn’s the name. I work for Mrs. Beasley. She’s sent along some things.”
    The skull-like features softened almost imperceptibly. “Ah, the dear lady,” he responded in the same lofty manner, glancing into the car with genteel interest. “Boys!” he cried, “Please assist Mr. Flynn in carrying these goods inside.”
    Two thin young men in threadbare blazers came pelting down the steps. The headmaster bent a malevolent look upon them. “Boys, please, have you no manners? Are we animals here? Are we savages?”
    They looked to be about thirteen, but I later learned both were fifteen.
    The boys, with a murmuring of “No, Headmaster, sorry, Headmaster,” duly composed themselves into a semblance of respectful orderliness and stood at attention. They waited there uncomfortably as O’Connell continued to glare. After a few moments O’Connell seemed satisfied with his authority, and directed them to carry on. Springing into action, they unloaded the car, doing their best to appear well behaved as they peered eagerly into the boxes and bags. They exchanged excited glances as the unmistakable fragrance of Mrs. Beasley’s baking wafted from a cloth-shrouded basket.
    â€œNever you mind what is there,” snapped the headmaster, “just take it to the dining hall.”
    â€œYes, Headmaster, sorry, Headmaster,” the boys chanted mechanically, as they laboured up the old stone steps after him. I followed on, carrying the rest while O’Connell stalked ahead empty-handed, plainly above such a menial task.
    We made our way through a still-splendid marble and stone entry, surmounted by a great bronze plaque of a rather later vintage which read: The Jacob Newington Starke Benevolent Home for the Care and Instruction of Unfortunate Boys. Well, there was no mistaking that these boys were unfortunate, having to endure life under the heel of a dried-up old tyrant such as O’Connell. I later learned that they referred to the Home, with fitting irreverence, as Jake Starkers. Once inside the entry, I looked about curiously. Ahead, much of the solid Georgian structure stood intact, but to my right there had been appalling destruction. I stopped in my tracks. Picking my way through a ruined doorway, I surveyed the remains of the bombed-out wing. It was all too familiar a sight: a jumble of broken stones lay heaped within what survived of the walls. The vanished roof, a skeleton of charred beams was all open to the elements. This was no blessing in disguise like Mrs. Beasley’s surprise duck pond. I wondered if any boys had been caught in the explosion.
    â€œMr. Flynn! Mr. Flynn!” the headmaster protested fussily from without, “We do not go in there.”
    â€œOh? Are you afraid I might damage something?”
    His thin nostrils flared, “I shan’t dignify that with an answer, young man. Just get out of there. Out this instant, I say!”
    Arrogant sod! I had one or two such schoolmasters, the sort I would like to meet with a fresh cowpat in my hand—preferably produced by the largest bovine ever to walk a field. I mastered my resentment and withdrew from the forbidden area