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FAIR PLAY, STE. GENEVIEVE. MISSOURI
NO DEFENSE
Gilbert Parke
1 3k35jg
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0
"TO VIRGINIAl"
Synopsis. Returning home after
a day's shooting, Dyck Calhoun,
Kitted young Irish gentleman of the
time of the French and American
revolutions, meets Sheila Llyn, seventeen-year-old
Blrl visiting In the
neighborhood. They are mutually
attracted. Shclla never knew her
dissipated father, Krrls Hoyne, her
mother having divorced him and
resumed her maiden name, Bench
ing home, Dyck finds Leonard
Mallow, son of Lord Mallow, with
a message from the attorney gen
eral summoning Miles Calhoun,
Dyck's father, to Dublin. They
go to Dublin and there Mal
low quarrels with Dyck and a duel
Is arranged. They fight with
swords and Dyck Is victor. Krrls
Hoyne, secretly In French employ,
gets Dyck drunk and tries to per
sunde him to Join In revolt against
England. They quarrel and Dyck
Is overheard to threaten Boyne.
While the former Is overcome with
drugged wine, Uoyno's second wife
enters the room and stabs her
faithless husband to tho heart
Dyck la arrested on a charge of
murder. He does not know If ho
killed Boyne or not, he was so mud
dled with the drugged wine. Sheila
begs her mother to go to Dublin
with her to help Dyck. Mrs. I-lyn
opposes the Idea.
CHAPTER VI Continued.)
Sheila took the letter. It ran us
follows :
"Dearest Sister:
"It Is eleven years since I wrote to
you, and yet, though It may seem
strange, there have not been eleven
days In nil the time In which I have
not wished you and Sheila were here.
Sheila why, she Is a youns woman !
She's about the age you were when
I left Ireland, and you were one of
the most beautiful and charming
creatures God ever gave life to.
"My estate is neither north nor
south, but farther south than north.
In a tense it is always summer, but
winter in my place would be like sum
mer In Norway Just bltlngly fresh,
happily alert. I'm writing In the sum
mer now. I look out of the window and
ace hundreds of acres of cotton
Belds, with hundreds upon hundreds
f negroes at work. I hear the songs
they sing, faint echoes of them, as I
write. Yes, my black folk do sing,
because they are well treated.
"Not that we haven't our troubles
here. You can't administer thousands
f acres, control hundreds of slaves,
ami :un an estate like a piece of
clockwork without creaks In the ma
chinery. I've built it ull up out of
next to nothing. I landed in this
country with my little fortune of two
thousand pounds. Tills estate Is worth
ot least a quarter of a million now.
I've an estate in Jamaica, too. I took
It far a debt. What it'll be worth in
(mother twenty years I don't know. I
shan't be here to see. I'm not the
man I was physically, and that's one
of the reasons why I'm writing to you
to-day.
"I want you and Sheila to cotne
here to me, to make my home yoilr
home, to take control of my house
hold, and to 'et mo see faces I love
ubout me as the shadows Infold me.
"This place, which I have called
Moira, Is to be yours, or, rather,
Sheila's. So, In any one, you will
wart to come and see the home I have
made tlds old colonial mansion, with
Its Corinthian pillars and veranda,
high steps, hard-wixnl lloors polished
like a pan, every room hung in dim
ity and chintz, and the smell of
fruit and (lowers everywhere. You
will want to see It nil, and you'll
want to live here. I have placed to
your credit In the Bank of Ireland a
thousand pounds. That will bo the
means of bringing you here you and
l-'heiln to my door, to Moira. Let noth
ing save death, prevent your com
ing. As far as Sheila's eye can see
north, Fouth, east and west the land
will be hers when I'm gone. Dent est
sister, sell nil things that are yours,
and come to me. You'll not forget Ire
land here. Whoever has breathed her
air enn never forget the hills and
dells, the valleys and bogs? the moun
tains, with their mist of rain, the wild
girls, with their tmro ankles, their red
pettlfoats, and their beautiful, reckless
nlr. None who has ever breathed the
nir of Ireland can breathe In another
land without memory of the nncleut
harp of Ireland. Hut It Is as a mem
mory deep, wonderful, and abiding,
yet a memory.
"Oh, believe rne, I speak of what I
know! I have been away from Ire
land for a long time, and I'm never
going back, but I'll bring Ireland to
me. Conio here, colleen, come to VIr
glnln. Write to me, on the day you
get this letter, that you're coming
soon, because I feel the cords blndlnt
me to my beloved ilelds growing thin
ner. They'll soon crnck, but, please
God, they won't crnck before you
come here.
NW with iy love to you and SbI-I
f& IT
WW
?pHT or my
31rgILBER.T
PARKER. I
la I stretch out my hand to you. Take
it. All that It has worked for is
yours; all that it wants Is you.
"Your loving brother,
"BIIYAN."
As Sheila read, the tears started
from her eyes; and at last she could
read no longer, so her mother took
tho letter front her and read the rest
of it' nloud. When she hud finished,
there was a silence n long warm si
lence; then, nt last, Mrs. Llyn rose to
her feet.
"Sheila, when shall wo go?"
With frightened eyes Sheila sprang
up.
"I said we must go to Dublin 1" she
murmured.
"Yes, we will go to Dublin, Sheila,
but it will bo on our way to Uncle
Brynn's home."
Sheila caught her mother's hands.
".Mother," she said, nfter n mo
ment of licsltation,"I must obey you!"
"It Is, the one way, my child the
one thing to do. Some one lu prison
As Sheila Read, the Tears Started
From Her Eyes.
calls perhaps; some one far away
who loves you, and needs us, calls
that we know. Tell me. mil I not
right? I ask you, where shall we go?"
"1 o Irglnla, mother."
The girl's head dropped, and her
eyes lllled with tears.
CHAPTER VII
Dyck's Father Visits Him.
In vain Dyck's lawyer, Will Mc-
Conulck, urged him to deny absolute
ly the killing of Errls Hoyne. Dyck
would not do so. He hud, however,
Immediately on being jailed, written
to Uie government, telling of the pro
jected invasion of Ireland by the
I'rench tleet, and saying that It had
come to him from a sure source. The
government bad at once taken action.
Regarding the deatli of Hoyne. the
only living thing in his favor was
that ills own sword-point was free
from stain. Ills lawyer made the ut
most of this, but to no avail. The
Impression in the court was that both
men hud been drinking; that they
had qunrreled, and that without a
duel being fought Dyck had killed
his enemy.
That there had been no duel wns
clear from the fact that Krrls Boyne's
sword was undrawn. The charge,
however, on the Instigation of the
attorney general, who was grateful
for the information nbnut France,
had been changed from murder to
manslaughter, though It seemed clear
that Hoyne had been ruthlessly killed
by a man whom he had befriended.
On one of the days of the trial,
Dyck's father, bowed, morose, and
obstinate, came to see him.
Miles Calhoun looked nt ills son
with dejection. Ills eyes wandered
over the grimly furnished cell. Ills
nose smelted the damp of it, and
suddeiily the whole soul of him burst
forth.
"You don't give yourself u chance
of escape, Dyck! You know what
Irish Juries are. Why don't you tell
the truth about tho quarrel? What's
the good of keeping your mouth shut
when there's ninny that would profit
by your telling It?
"Who would profit?" nsked Dyck.
"Who would profit?" snarled the
old man. "Well, you would profit
first, for it might break the dark chain
of circumstnntlnl evidence. Also your
father would profit. I'd be saved
shame, perhaps; I'd get relief from
this disgrace. Oh, man, think of
others besides yourself I"
"Think of others I" said Dyck, and
a queer smile lighted his haggard
face. "I'd save myself If I honor-
ably .could,"
The old man fumbled with a waist'
cont button. Ills eyes blinked hard.
"You don't see," he continued, "the
one thing that's plain to my eyes, and
It's this that your only chance of
escape Is to tell the truth about the
quarrel. If tho truth were told, what
ever It Is, I believe It would ho to
your credit I'll say that for you. If
It was to your credit, even If they be
lieve you guilty of killing Krrls Hoyne,
they'd touch you lightly. Ah, In the
name of the mother you loved, I nsk
you to tell the truth abouf the quar
rel 1 In the name of God "
"Don't speak to mo like that," In
terrupted Dyck, with emotion. "I've
thought of nil those things. I hold
my pence because because I hold my
peace. To speak would be to hurt
some one I Iovl aye, to hurt sonic
one I love with all my soul."
"And you won't speak to save me
your father because you don't love
me with all your soul! Is that It?"
asked Miles Calhoun.
"It's different It's different"
"Ah, It's a woman I"
"Never mind what It Is. I will not
tell. There are things more shameful
than deatli."
"Yes," snarled the old man. "Itnth
er than save yourself, you bring
dishonor upon him who gave you
birth."
Dyck's face was submerged In color.
"Father," said he, "on my honor 1
wouldn't hurt you If I could help It,
but I'll not tell the, world of the qunr
rel between that man nnd myself. My
silence may hurt you, but It would
hurt some one else far more If I told."
"Hy God, I think you are some mad
dreamer slipped out of the ancient
fold! Do you know where you are?
You're In Jail. If you're found guilty,
you'll be sent to prison at least for
the years that'll spoil the making of
your life; nnd you do It because you
think you'll spare somebody. Well,
I ask you to spare me. We've been
a rough race, we Calhouns; we've
done mad, bad things, perhaps, but
none has shamed us before the world
none but you."
"I have never shinned you. Miles
Calhoun," replied his son sharply.
"As the ancients said, alls volat pro
prlls I will lly with my own wings.
Come weal, come woe, come dark,
come light, I have fixed my mind, nnd
nothing shall change It. You loved
my mother better than the rest of the
world. You would have thought It no
shame to have said so to your own
father. Well, I say It to you I'll
stand by what my conscience and
my soul have dictated to me. You
call me a dreamer. Let it be so.
I'm Irish: I'm a Celt. I've drunk
deep of all that Ireland means. All
that's behind me Is my own, back to
the shadowy kings of Ireland, who lost
life and gave It because they believed
in what they did. So will I. If I'm
to walk the hills no more on the es
tate where you are ma.-ter, let it be
so. I have no fear; 1 want no favor.
If it Is to be prison, then It shall be
prison. If it Is to be shame, then let
It be shame. These are days when
men must suffer If they muke mis
takes. Well, I will suffer, fearlessly
if helplessly, but I will not break the
oath which I have taken. And so I
will not do It never never never I"
Hut of one thing have you
thought?" nsked his father. "You
will not tell the cause of the quarrel,
for the reason that you might hurt
somebody. If you don't tell the cause.
and you nre condemned, wou't that
hurt somebody even more?"
For a moment Dyck stood silent,
absorbed. Ills face looked nlnched.
"I Have Never Shamed You, Miles
Calhoun."
his whole appearance shriveled. Then,
with deliberation, he said:
"This Is not a matter of expedi
ency, but of principle. My heart tells
me what to do, and my heart has al
ways been right."
There was silence for u long time.
At last the old man drew the cloak
about his shoulders and turned to
ward the door.
"Walt a minute, fathor," said Dyck.
"Don't go like that. You'd better not
come and see me ngaln. If I'm con
demned, go back to I'laymore; If Tin
acquitted, go back to I'laymore. That's
the place for you to be. You've got
your own troubles there."
"And you If you're set free?"
"If I'm acquitted, I'll take to tho
high sens till I'm cured."
A moment later, without further
words, Dyck was alone. lie heard tho
door clung.
lie sat for some time on tho edge
of his bed, buried in dejection. I'res
ently, however, the door opened.
"A letter for you, sir," said tho
JaUer.
jj
it
The light of the cell una dim, but
Dyck managed to read the. letter with,
out great difficulty, us the writing was
almost as precise us print. The sight
of It caught his heart like n warm
hand and pressed It. This wns the
substnnco of the letter:'
"My Dear Friend:
"I have wanted to visit you In pris
on, but my mother has forbidden It,
and so, even If I could be let to enter,
I must not disobey her. I have not
read the papers giving an account of
your trlnl. I only know you are
charged with killing a bad man, noto
rious In Dublin life, nnd that ninny
think he got his just deserts In being
killed.
"I will not beJlevo that your fate Is.
an evil one, that the Jaw will grind
you between the mllls'lones of guilt
and dishonor; hut If the law should
call you guilty, I still will not believe.
Far awny I will think of you, and
believe In you, dear, masterful, mad
man friend. Yes, you nre a madman,
for Michael Clones told me faith, he
loves you well ! thut you've been liv
ing a gay life In Dublin since you
came here, and that the man you are
accused of killing wns In great part
the cause of It.
"I think 1 never saw my mother so
troubled In spirit as she Is nt this
time. Of course, she could not feel as
I do about you. It Isn't that which
makes her sad and haggard ; It Is that
we are leaving Ireland behind.
"Yes, she and I are saying good-by
to Ireland. That's why I think she
might have let "me sec you before we
went ; but since It must not be, well,
then, It must not. Hut we shnll meet
again. In my soul I know that on
the hills somewhere far off, as on the
first day we met, we shall meet each
other once more. Where are we go
ing? Oh, very far I We nre going
to my Uncle Hrynn Bryan Llyn, In
Virginia. A letter has come from hlni
urging us to make our home with him.
You see, my friend "
Then followed the story which
Bryan Llyn had told her mother and
herself, and she wrote of her mother's
decision to go out to the new, great
home which her uncle had made
among the cotton fields of the South.
When she had finished that part of the
tale, she went on as follows:
' "We shall know your fate only
through the letters that will follow
us, but I will not believe In your bad
luck. Listen to me why don't you
come tn America also? Oh, think It
over! Don't believe the worst will
come. When they release you from
prison, Innocent and acquitted, cross
the ocean nnd sot up your tent under
the Stnrs and Stripes. Think of It!
Nearly all those men in America who
fought under Washington and won
were born In these Islands. They took
with them to that far land the mem
ory and love of these old homes. You
and I would have fought for England
and with the British- troops, because
we detest revolution. Here, In Ire
land, we have seen its evils; nnd yet
If we had fought for the Union Jack
beyond the mountains of Maine and
In the lonely woods, we should, I be
lieve, In the end have said that the
freedom fought for by the American
states was well won.
"So keep this matter In your mind,
as my mother and I will soon be gone.
She would not let me come to you I
think I have never seen her so dis
turbed ns when I asked her and she
forbade me to write to you ; but I dis
obey her. Well, this is a sad busi
ness. I know my mother hns suffered.
I know her married life wns unhappy,
'ind that her husband my father
died many n year ago, leaving n dark,
trail of regret behind him; hut, you
see, I never knew my fnther. That
was all long ngo, and It Is n hundred
times best forgotten,
"Our ship sails for Virginia In three
days, and I must go. I will keep
looking back to the prison where lies,
charged with an evil crime, of which
he Is not guilty, n young man for
whom I shall always carry tho spirit
of good friendship.
"Do not believe all will not go well.
The thing to do Is to keep the courage
of our hearts nnd the faith of our
souls, and I hope I always shall. I
believe In you, and, believing, I say
good-by. 1 say farewell In tho great
hope that somehow, somewhere, we
shall help each other on the way of
life. God be with you!
"I am your friend,
"SHEILA LLYN."
"I'. S. I beg you to remember that
America Is a good place for n young
man to live In and succeed."
Dyck read tho letter with u wonder
ful slowness. lie realized that by
happy accident It could be nothing
elsi. Mrs. Llyn had been aide to keep
from her daughter the fact that tho
man who bad been killed In the tavern
by the river was her father.
Sheila's Ignorance must not be
broken by himself. He hud done the
right thing he had held his peace for
the girl's sake, and he would hold it
to the end. Slowly ho folded up the
letter, pressed It to his lips, and put
It In the pocket over his heart
BOOK II
CHAPTER VIII.
Dyck Calhoun Enters the World Again.
"Is It near the time?" asked Michael
Clones of his friend, us they stood in
front of tho prison.
Ills companion, who wns seated on a
stone, wrapped In dark-green cover
ings, faded and worn, uud looking
pinched with cold In tho dour Novem
ber day, said, without lifting his head:
"Seven minutes, an' he'll bo out,
God bless him I"
"And snve him and protect him I"
said Michael. "lie deserved nunish.
meat, no more .thun I did, and it's
broke him. I've seen the Bray gather
nt his temples, though he's only been
In prison four years. He wns con
demned to eight, but they've let him
free. I don't know why. I'erhnps It
was because of what he told the gov
ernment nbout the French navy. I've
seen the Joy of life sob Itself down to
the sour earth. When I took hint the
news of his father's dentil, nnd told
bltn the creditors were swallowing
what was left of I'laymore, what do
you think he did?"
Old Christopher Dognn smiled; bin1
eyes twinkled with n mirth which had
more pnli than gaiety.
"God love you, I know what he did.
He flung out his bands nnd said, 'Let
It go! It's nothing to me.' Michael,
have I said true?"
Michael nodded.
"Almost his very words you've used,
nnd he flung out his hands, us you
said."
"Aye, he'll be changed; hut they've
kept the clothes he had when he went
to prison and he'll come out In them,
I'm thinking"
"Ah, no!" Interrupted Mlchncl.
"That can't be, for his clotlius was
stole. Only a week ago he sent to me
for a suit of my own. I wouldn't have
him wear my clothes he n gentle
man! It wasn't fitting. So I sent him
a suit I bought from n shop, but he
wouldn't have It. lie would leave
prison a poor man, ns a peasant In
peasant's clothes. So he wrote to me.
Here Is the letter." He drew from his
pocket n sheet of paper, nnd sprend
it out. "See rcail It. Ah, well, never
mind," he added, as old Christopher
shook his head. "Never mind, I'll
read It to youl" Thereupon he read
the note, and ndded: "We'll see him
of the Calhouns rlsin' high beyant
poverty and misfortune some day."
Old Christopher nodded.
"I'm glad Miles Calhoun wns burled
on the hilltop above I'laymore. He
had his day; he lived his life. Things
went wrong with him, and lie paid the
price we all must pay for work Ill
done." "There you're right, Christopher
Dogan, and I remember the day the
downfall began. It was when him
that's now Lord Mallow, governor of
Jnmalca, came to summon Calhoun to
Dublin. Things were never the same
after that ; but I well remember' one
tnlk I bad with Miles Calhoun just be
fore his death : 'Michael,' he said to
me, 'my family have had many ups
and downs, and some thnt' hear my
name have been In prison before; this,
but never for killing n man out of
fair light.' 'One of your name mny
be In prison, sir,' said I, 'but not for
killing a man out of fair fight. If
you believe ho did, there's no death
bad enough for you 1' He was silent
for n wlille; then nt last he whispered
Mr. Dyck's name, and said to me:
'Tell htm thut as a Calhoun I love
him, and ns Ids father I love him ten
times more. For, look you, Michael,
though we never ran together, but
quarreled nnd took our own paths, yet
we are both Calhouns, nnd my heart
Is warm to him. If my son were a
thousand times a criminal, neverthe
less I would nche to tnke him by the
hand.' "
"Hush 1 Look nt the prison pate,"
said his companion nnd stood up.
As the gates of the prison opened.
the sun broke through the clouds nnd
gnve u brilliant phase to the scene.
Out of the gates there came slowly,
yet firmly, dressed In peasant clothes,
the stalwart but faded figure of Dyck
Calhoun.
Terribly changed he was. He had
entered prison with the Hush upon his
cheek, the tilt of young munhood in
his eyes, with hair black and hands
slender, nnd handsome. There was
no look of youth In his face now. It
wns the face of a middle-aged man
from which the dew of youth had van
ished, Into which life's storms had
come and gone. Though the body was
held erect, yet the, head wns thrust
slightly forward, and the heavy eye
brows were like n penthouse. The
eyes were slightly feverish, and round
the mouth there crept a smile, hulf-
cynlcal, but a little happy. All fresh
ness was gone from his hands. One
hung at his side, listless, corded; the
other doffed his hat In reply to the
salute of his two humble friends.
As the gates closed behind htm he
looked gravely nt the two men, who
were standing not a foot upart. There
swept slowly Into his eyes, enlarging,
brightening them, the glamor of the
Celtic soul. Of all Ireland.' or nil who
had ever known htm, these two were
the only ones welcoming him Into the
world again t
Michael Clones, with his oval red
face, big nose, steely eyes' and stead
fast bearing, had in him the soul of
great kings. Ills hat was sot firmly
on his head. Ills knee breeches were
neat, If coarse; ids stockings were
clean. Ills feet were well, shod, his
coat worn, and he bud still tho look
that belongs to the well-to-do peas
ant. He was a figure of courage and
endurance.
Dyck's hand went out to him und
n warm smile crept to his Hps.
"Mlclmel evcr-falthful Michael 1"
A moisture cumo to Michuel's eyes.
Ho did not speak us, with a look of
gratitude, ho clasped tho hand Dyck
offered hi in.
l'resoiitly Dyck turned to old Chris
topher with a kindly laugh.
"Well, old friend I You, too, come
to see the stng sot loose again? You're
not many, that's sure." A grim, hnrd
look came Into his face, but both hands
went out nnd caught the old man's
Phuulders affectionately, 'This Is no
day for you to bo wnlting nt prison's
gates, Christopher; but there uro two
men who believe In me two In all
the world. It Isn't the killing," he
ndded nfter a moment's silence "It
Un't the killing that hurts so. If it's
true that I killed Errls Boyne, what
hurts most is the reason why I killed
him."
"One way or another does it mnttM
now?" asked Christopher gently.
"It Is that you think nothing Rat
ters since I've paid thu price, mini
myself In shame, lost my friends and
come out with not a penny left?"
usked Dyck. "But yes," ho added
with n smile, wry nnd twisted. "Yes,
I have a little leftl"
He drew from his pocket four smnll
ineeos of gold, nnd gazed Ironically nt
them In his palm.
"Look nt them!" He held out his
hand, so that the two men could See
the little coins. "Those were taken
from me when I entered prison.
They've been In the hands of the head
of tho Jail ever since. They give diem
to me now all that's left of what I
wns."
"No, not all, sir," declnred Michael.
"There's something left from I'Iny
more there's ninety pounds, nnd it's
In my pocket. It was got from the
"Michael Ever-Faithful Michael I"
sale of your sporting kit. There was
the boat upon the lake, the gun and all
kinds of riffraff stuff not sold with
I'laymore."
Dyck nodded nnd smiled.
"Good MlchneJl""
Then he drew'hlmself up stiffly and
blew In and out his breath ns If with
the Joy of living. For four hnrd years
he had been denied the free nlr of
free men. Even when walking la
the prison yard, on cold or fair days,
when the nlr was like a knife or when
it hud the sun of summer In It, it still
had seemed to choke him.
In prison he had read, thought and
worked much. They had at least dona
that for him. The attorney, general
had given him freedom to work with
his hnnds, and to slave In the work-,
shop like one whose living depended
on It. Some philanthropic official
had started the Idea of a workshop,
and the olllcinls had given the best of
the prisoners a chance to learn trades
and tnnku a little money before they
went out into the world. Ail that
Dyck had earned went to ptirchaso
things he needed, and to hell) his fel
low prisoners or their families.
Where was he now? The gap be
tween the old life of nonchalance, fri
volity, fantasy und excitement was
as grent ns thut between heaven and
hell. Here he was, nfter four years
of prison, walking the highway with
two of the humblest creatures of Ire
land, and yet, as his soul said, two of
the best.
Stalking along in thought, he sud
denly became conscious that Michael
and Christopher had fallen behind.
He" turned round,
"Come on. Come on with me."
But the two shook their heads.
"It's not fitting, you a Calhoun of
I'laymore I" Christopher answered.
"Well, then, listen to me," said
Dyck, for he saw the men could not
bear his new democracy. "I'm hun
gry. In four years I haven't had a
meal thnt came from the right place
or went to the right spot. Is tho lit
tle tavern, the Hen and Chicken, on
the Llffeysldo, still going? I mean
the place where the seamen und thu
merchant-ship officers visit."
Michael nodded.
"Well, look you, Michael get you
both there, and order me as gpod a
meal of fish and ' chops nnd baked
pudding ns can be bought for money.
Aye, and I'll have a bottle of red
French wine and you two will huva'
what you like best. Mark me, we'll
sit together thori?, for we're one of a
kind. I'vo got to take to'a life that
fits me, nn ex-Jailbird, n man that's
been In prison for killing!"
"There's the king's army," said
Michael. "They make good officers In
it."
A strange, hnlf-soro smile came to
Dyck's thin lips.
"Mlclmel," said he, "give up these
vain Illusions. I wns condenineu'foe
killing u man not In fair light. I can'cH
enter the army ns an olllcer, and yoti
should know It. The king himself
could set me up again; but the dis
tance between him and nic-4s ten times
round the world nnd back again 1 No,,
my friends, whut Is In my mind now
Is thnt I'm hungry. For four years
I've eaten tho bread of prison, nnd
It's soured my mouth nnd gulled my
belly. Go you ,to thut Inn and make'
ready a good meal."
Dyck enlists at a quota man
in tho British navy.
(TO BB C0NTIMUKD4
