Dearest mother and father:
How are you? I am well. We are off Catalonia, which is in Spain. The Captain is in a horrible temper because the Doctor, his particular friend (the seamen call it a tie-mate) is stranded ashore among the wild animals and Spanish. He cut a hole in the gunner's head a few weeks ago (the Doctor, not the Captain).
"It's no use," says Babbington despondently. "I cannot think of anything to put."
"Neither can I," says Ricketts in a muffled voice, which comes of having his head resting on his crossed forearms and his mouth less than an inch from the table. "There is nothing to put. I should have to stop talking to Father so as to save up conversation." He stretches an arm across the table and pokes Babbington. "Let me see it." Ricketts scans the given letter. "Have you any brothers?"
"I haven't. Why?"
"Sisters?"
"Three."
"Ask after them."
And how are Mary, Lydie and Kitty? I hope they are well and that Lydie has recovered from her fright with the chickens.
"There," says Babbington doubtfully.
"What about dogs? You have a dog, don't you?"
And how is old Castor? Has his paw healed enough for him to chase rabbits again?
This continues in like manner. Babbington discovers that he is concerned for the welfare of people and animals that he was barely acquainted with at home. At last they have exhausted all the possibilities, but the letter is still not two pages long. Both midshipmen stare stupidly at it. Then Babbington brightens, writes quickly:
And how is the great hall clock? It used to make such a lovely ticking sound.
and signs it, a large messy signature that fills up the last space left on the page.
Ricketts has finished his letter too, by means which he will not divulge to Babbington. "Come on, let me read it," says Babbington.
"No. Go away," says Ricketts, and pokes him with the quill. Babbington squeaks and pokes him back.
Almost one bell later, it dawns upon the two giggling ink-covered midshipmen that they should probably bring their letters up to show the Captain.
"Get off me, Will," says Ricketts with rather little conviction. Babbington raises his eyebrows suggestively, but stands. Ricketts clambers up from the deck and straightens his clothes.
"Hold on," says Babbington, remembering suddenly, and writes a postscript to his letter:
P.S. Captain's compliments, and his bankers are whores Hoares.
The berth is not empty long: within half a glass they are back, sans letters and close to tears. Ricketts sits down heavily on his sea-chest. "It's not fair," he says in a trembling voice, though it is, of course, completely fair that they should be severely reprimanded for covering themselves in ink.
Babbington flops down next to him. "I want to go home," he says wretchedly. "I miss Mother and Father, and Mary'n'Lydie'n'Kitty, and Castor, and the clock. I want to go home."
Ricketts bursts into tears. "I don't want to go," he sniffles. "I want to stay on the Sophie. I like the Sophie."
Babbington begins to cry as well, and the midshipmen cling for an undignified length of time. Then Babbington looks over at Ricketts and lets out a strangled laugh. "You have ink on your face." He dabs it with his finger and shows it to Ricketts. "No, really, it's everywhere." There is a moment's breathless pause before they both start giggling madly.
Ricketts stands awkwardly and makes an exaggerated bow. "My humblest thanks, Mr. Babbington, for apprising me of this knowledge." He hiccups.
Babbington returns the courtesy. "Oh, no, Mr. Ricketts. Thank you, for instructing me in the fine art of letter-writing."
