Free A Ship's Tale by N. Jay Young Page A

with good grace. As I passed the old man, I half expected to feel a cane fall on the backs of my legs. I didn’t argue with him, as I reasoned the boys would pay for his subsequent bad temper. I privately reserved the right to settle with him in my own time.
    I followed him through the main doorway, up a flight of stairs and into a large, nearly empty room in which our footsteps echoed dismally on the stone floor. This bleak cavern served as the dining hall. There were no rugs, and the only furniture was a long wooden table lined with benches, on which Mrs. Beasley’s donations were heaped. I added my own burden to the lot. The two boys stood warming their hands at the hearth, in which glowed a sorry bit of coal that did nothing to take the chill off this immense space. Over the mantel hung a large Victorian-style painting I presumed to be the likeness of the benevolent Mr. Starke. The painting glowered dourly upon the room. Clearly, the present headmaster was carrying on in the spirit of this founding father. These were but the sorry remains of the original orphanage, but I doubted conditions were as bleak as what I saw now. The boys appeared ill clad and ill fed and the gaunt O’Connell was obviously not fattening on provisions denied his young charges. One did have to wonder, however, how he managed to afford such an expensive new suit amidst all this privation.
    I began to feel that I had wandered into a Dickens novel and looked about half-expecting to see a great copper of gruel all a-bubble. This had to be the most cheerless place I’d ever visited. The one-time beauty and comfort of this hall had faded due to more than just the War. Pure neglect was everywhere. To one side of the hearth lay a fishing net filled with coal. I guessed at once it had been brought up from the old coal barge by some of the men there. At least they cared enough to send along a bit of warmth.
    The eyes of the two young men darted from me to the donations and back again with the liveliest curiosity. O’Connell regarded them sourly; he then clapped his hands brusquely. “Boys!” he barked, “back to your History. You wouldn’t want to fall behind, now would you?”
    The boys marched out hastily, with a murmured “No, Headmaster,” seemingly an automatic response. I wondered what the penalty was for falling behind. Flogging?
    O’Connell turned his attention to me. “Thank you, Mr. Flynn,” he said in a dismissive tone, “Now I must return to the managing of this establishment. Do convey my thanks to Mrs. Beasley, and tell her that I will call on her in the near future.”
    â€œYes, I must be off. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties,” I returned levelly. “I know how devoted you are to the welfare of these unfortunate boys. I’ll show myself out.” As I turned to leave, I fancied that I could feel steam leaving my ears. One more minute of him, and I don’t know what I might have done. I had visions of swabbing the floor with this pale skinny twit. Grief!
    I went down the great stairs into the morning, only to be startled by the sound of a bo’sun’s pipe. Looking back, I noticed a courtyard beyond the high stone wall alongside the building. Again I heard the familiar shrill sound.
    As I headed towards the gate, O’Connell came hurrying along behind me. “Mr. Flynn! Oh, Mr. Flynn!” he called out, but I pretended not to hear. I stopped at the gate, which stood slightly ajar, and looked in. A mast had been erected as a flagpole, complete with yardarms and rigging. Standing with the boys were Harris and Boris. Puzzled, I pulled at the gate just as O’Connell came up and seized hold of my arm. I was so surprised that I did not react immediately.
    â€œMr. Flynn!” he said sharply, “I thanked you for delivering Mrs. Beasley’s goods, and I’ll now thank you not to interfere with my boys at their studies. Your