Punch (77.1879)

MAKING.

To watch a Yacht-Race, during a dead calm, when totj don't know
who the Yachts belong to (and don't care), and are so little versed
in the Nautical Craft that you cannot tell the difference between a
Schooner, a Cutter, and a Yawl, is not a lively way of getting
through a Wet Afternoon at the Sea-side.

I rather emphasise the "pipe," implying that J know what these young dogs
do, and that they can't get over me.
He stares at me. What do I mean ?

My host stares at me, too. "That's a nice way of being at Eton," he
remarks, with a dry, caustic laugh.

"Dead Water!" repeats the boy, shaking his head sharply, and nearly
laughing outright. " Where's that ? "

" Oh," I say, " come, hang it—not know Dead Water ? Why, when I was

there-" Ah, but it suddenly occurs to me that this was longer ago than

the day before yesterday; and as the Young Etonian, all of the Modern Time
has never heard of " Dead Water "—which was an aquatic lounge in my day—
the water which was dead then, must have been buried, long since, in a watery
grave. He could tell me more about the Dead Sea, I dare say, if I were to ask
him ; but I shan't.

The Etonian goes on to tell me that he occupies himself chiefly in volun-
teering, shooting, and drilling. This is all new to me.
" Volunteering and shooting " ! Dear me !
" And," I ask, " is old Webber still there ? "

I prefix " Old " to the name of Webber (who was a confectioner) because it
occurs to me that if Punch Buneord is a superannuated tutor, Webber must
be a superannuated pastry-cook.

The Etonian shakes his head, and smiles suspiciously. Am I chaffing
him ? He doesn't know any " Webber."

" He had a shop on-" (here my memory fails me)—" on-Dear, bless

me, what's the name of the bridge ?"

|| Windsor Bridge ? " suggests the boy, maliciously.
_ " No, no—just out of bounds," I say, with a side-look at my host, to see if he
is not favourably impressed by my knowledge of localities. He isn't, that's
evident. _ It is, apparently, to him, still a contest of wits between myself and
the Etonian, with six to four in the latter's favour.

THE LONDON CHABIVARL [September 27, 1879.

" Barnes Bridge," says the boy.

" Yes ! " I exclaim, exultingly—" on Barnes Bridge,
and Barnes, too, and the Pool! "

And I nearly shout with joy at remembering so much.

The little Etonian only shakes his head pityingly. All
gone—except the bridge.

I question him about the position of certain houses.
No. He doesn't know them. He has never even heard
of them. "Joe's?" Pooh! Who's Joe? "Brian?
Spankie ? " The Etonian smiles upon me sadly. I feel
that were he to put his thoughts into words, he would
say, " Poor old chap ! What is he maundering about ? "

I am inclined to ask if Eton exists at all, as / knew it ?

My host tires of the conversation—perhaps of me. I
remark to him, for the sake of my character for vera-
city, " The place must have changed considerably."

He nods.

The boy, cutting at the hundredth invisible ball with
a racket, and smiling, knowingly, up at me, from under
his broad brim, observes,

"I s'pose you haven't been there for a very long time ?"

It occurs to me, as something that had never struck
me before, that I have not been there for a very long time.
I begin to call to mind when I left, and when I went,—
dates for the boy's information, and my own.

My host suggests that Teddy, the Etonian, should play
a game of lawn-tennis with me ; whereat the boy seems
to measure me from head to foot (not a very lengthy
calculation—though I would not hear my enemy say so),
and his smile becomes more supercilious and more
decided than ever.

"Do you play lawn-tennis at Eton?" _ I ask diffi-
dently, and am almost inclined to add " Sir," and raise
my hat to him, respectfully.

"A little—not much," he answers, carelessly, switching
the racket about.

" I suppose," I say to him, still diffidently, and with
a trembling sort of fear that he will, by some sort of
right, fag me to fetch the balls, or order me to run and
get something for him that he has left in the house, '' I
suppose you are a great swell at tennis ? "

I put this to him in a flattering tone, so as to conciliate
him, and induce him not to be severe, or unkind, with
me.

"No," he says, "not much of a swell," and he begins
driving the balls into the corner of the court where he is
going to play.

By this time the other players in the other court—
first-raters—are taking a rest, and have formed a gallery
on the terrace.

I am in full lawn-tennis flannel costume, evidently
intending to work hard. My antagonist, the little
Etonian, doesn't even condescend to remove his coat,
but saunters into the right-hand corner, and in another
second, without saying " Play ! " he has whizzed a ball
right over the net, I have missed it, and he has taken the
other side ready for next service.

The balls come whizzling over the net one after the
other. He keeps me running from side to side without
hitting one once, and in less than a minute the game is
over.

Roars of laughter (at me), and ironical applause from
the gallery.

I have to serve. Ripples of laughter from gallery,
and facetious remarks on the match, all the worse for not
being spoken out loud, but whispered half audibly.

I serve. Eault. Mea culpa .'

I serve again; and again. Mea culpa! Ironical
cheers. Somebody shouts out something to me. I smile,
and say "What?"

Boy cries out, "Now then—that's your court!" and
points to me to change sides. I had forgotten. I bow
to him humbly, and wish I had never been at Eton.

Serve again. Good. He returns a whizzler. I make
for it. Hit it. Where it goes I can't see. Nor anybody
else. I have sent it flying over the tops of the trees.
Ironical applause.

'' Don't use so much force!'' shouts my host, anxiously,
who foresees the loss of the balls.

"All right! " I reply, as cheerfully as I can.

"The other side!" cries out the boy, in a tone that
implies "Now then, stoopid! " and again I bow mentally
in the deepest humility, and feel that I am getting
fagged just as much as though I were a boy again
waiting to pick up the ball behind the fives-courts in the
school-yard. Do they exist still ? I don't know. I don t