Love in Our Time by Norman Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

outside. It was generally felt that under Mr. Vestry’s command the East Finchley Fleet would sail covered in victory and glory.
    â€œHas any Brother Mariner here to-night any othername to offer for election to the distinguished post of Commodore?”
    It was the Sea Lord from Gresham Street who was speaking: he had assumed command of the ceremonies from the moment when the retiring Commodore had sat down and handed over his Commodore’s cap. The Sea Lord himself wore an Admiral’s hat, braided and gold laced.
    A small man at the back got to his feet. “Brother Sea Lord, I propose Brother Biddle’s name,” he said.
    Mr. Biddle turned and stared. The small man was Mr. Winall, who still owed him for re-roofing his garage. Mr. Biddle could not help wondering if the proposal and the debt were in any way connected.
    â€œWill any Brother Mariner second that proposal?”
    â€œBrother Sea Lord, I will second Brother Biddle’s nomination.”
    It was Mr. Cunningham who spoke this time. The man was a solicitor. Altogether it was one of the more pleasant surprises of life to find a man like Mr. Cunningham supporting him. And the man immediately behind Mr. Biddle seemed pleased too, about the nomination.
    â€œGood old Biddle,” he said. “Hope you get in. You deserve it.”
    Mr. Biddle shifted awkwardly in his seat.
    â€œThey don’t want me,” he said. “They’ve got plenty of ’em already.”
    â€œVery well, Brother Mariners, let us record our votes in the ancient manner of our Order.”
    The Sea Lord bent down and placed a ship’s bucket on the table.
    â€œWrite down the names in ink and fold the paper over,” he said.
    The candidates themselves were not allowed to vote. They formed a little group of their own. But Mr. Biddle was aware that in a subtle way he was excluded from it. He had, moreover, the self-conscious feeling that he had somehow gate-crashed into the nomination. Against his judgment and his inclination he had suddenly been picked up from the quiet, third row where he had been sitting and pushed into notoriety. He tried to catch Mr. Vestry’s eye and smiled apologetically.
    But it was unnecessary: Mr. Vestry was wonderfully disarming.
    â€œHope you get it, Biddle,” he said. “I’ve got enough on my shoulders without this on top of it. Wouldn’t ever have agreed to stand if the boys hadn’t insisted.”
    â€œVery nice of you to put it that way,” Mr. Biddle replied. “But you won’t get out of it like that. They want you and they mean to have you.”
    â€œYou think so?” Mr. Vestry inquired with the easy confidence of the successful man. “Well, we’ll see.”
    One by one the Mariners returned to their places. Mr. Biddle did not take the trouble to go up to the front again. He took the last chair in the back row and sat across it cornerwise; he wanted to get on with his collection for Brother Millward as soon as the election was over. But apparently there was some sort of disagreement on the platform. The Sea Lord and Mr. Bowler, the retiring Commodore, were conferring together anxiously: they had the sheepish, muddled air of men who had found that their figures did not tally. The company in the body of the hall began to grow restive. There was the sound of coughing and clearing of throats. Mr. Ankerson and Mr. Hill discussed fruit trees. Mr. Biddle closed his eyes and sat back in hischair; he felt himself soothingly sinking off into a light doze.
    Then the presiding Sea Lord broke the silence.
    â€œBrother Mariners,” he said slowly, “in the name of the East Finchley Fleet I have the honour to report that by this Harbour Election, freely and without prejudice undertaken, our Brother Mariner, Brother Biddle has been raised to the eminent and distinguished rank of Commodore.”
    There was the sound of cheering and Mr. Biddle sat up with a jerk. It seemed