It may not be out of place to relate a characteristic story of Admiral Sims, whose career in our service, whose notable contributions to naval gunnery are too well known to need repetition.  Several years ago, on a memorable trip to England, he was designated by the admiral of the fleet to be present at a banquet given our sailors in the Guildhall.  Of course the lord mayor called upon him for a speech, but Commander Sims insisted that a bluejacket should make the address.  “What, a bluejacket!” exclaimed the lord mayor in astonishment.  “Do bluejackets make speeches in your country?” “Certainly they do,” said Sims.  “Now there’s a fine-looking man over there, a quartermaster on my ship.  Let’s call on him and see what he has to say.”  The quartermaster, duly summoned, rose with aplomb and delivered himself of a speech that made the hall ring, that formed the subject of a puzzled and amazed comment by the newspapers of the British Capital.  Nor was it ever divulged that Commander Sims had foreseen the occasion and had picked out the impressive quartermaster to make a reputation for oratory for the enlisted force.

As a matter of fact, it is no exaggeration to add that there were and are other non-commissioned officers and enlisted men in the service who could have acquitted themselves equally well.  One has only to attend some of their theatrical performances to be assured of it.

But to the European mind our bluejacket is still something of an anomaly.  He is a credit to our public schools, a fruit of our system of universal education.  And he belongs to a service in which are reconciled, paradoxically, democracy and discipline.  One moment you may hear a bluejacket talking to an officer as man to man, and the next you will see him salute and obey an order implicitly.

On a wet and smoky night I went from the London streets into the brightness and warmth of that refuge for American soldiers and sailors, the “Eagle Hut,” as the Y. M. C. A. is called.  The place was full, as usual, but my glance was at once attracted by three strapping, intelligent-looking men in sailor blouses playing pool in a corner.  “I simply can’t get used to the fact that people like that are ordinary sailors,” said the lady in charge to me as we leaned against the soda-fountain.  “They’re a continual pride and delight to us Americans here—­always so willing to help when there’s anything to be done, and so interesting to talk to.”  When I suggested that her ideas of the navy must have been derived from Pinafore she laughed.  “I can’t imagine using a cat-o’-nine-tails on them!” she exclaimed—­and neither could I. I heard many similar comments.  They are indubitably American, these sailors, youngsters with the stamp of our environment on their features, keen and self-reliant.  I am not speaking now only of those who have enlisted since the war, but of those others, largely from the small towns and villages of our Middle West, who in the past dozen