Punch: Punch (89.1885)

148

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 26, 1885.


A SHORT HOLIDAY CRUISE-

The Imp—The Struggle—Exorcised—Triumph—Tip again—Dinner
—Night—Morning —Real Pleasure.

First Afternoon.—In my own cabin: lying: on my berth. I am
going through the process of '' getting it oyer." The cure takes about

seven hours. At
some time
other, probably
one o'clock or
half - past, the
Steward, looks in
to announce lun-
cheon. Attentive,
but superfluous.
I do not reply.
Happy Thought
[Advertisement
Fortn).—"Silence
will be considered
a polite nega-
tive."

Here we go tip, up, up! Here we go down, down, down ! And
here we go round, round, round, oh! But I have a firm faith in
the future, founded upon some considerable experience in the past.

They are comparatively quiet on deck; the only disturbance is from
a most irritating cupboard-door which hasn't been properly fastened,
and so swings backwards and forwards, creaking all the while, then
at every lurch coming with a startling whack against the wash-hand
stand. Creak, creak, creak, creak, creak, whack! Creak, creak,
whack, whack! Creak, creak—rather slowly now—cree-ak, cree-ak,
creeee-ak, then suddenly and vivaciously, whack, whack, whack!
and so on until we " go about," when it shuts itself with a Bang that
I hope has secured it for ever. But no, as the yacht pitches forward,
taking a header with its bows, the door is swung violently open, as if
there were somebody inside who had been locked up in the cupboard
for hours, and at his last gasp had forced the lock with one supreme
effort. I almost expect to see someone tumble out. If anyone does
tumble out, it can't be a burglar; it might be a ghost.

Sappy Thought for Christmas Tale.—The flaunted Yacht. (I
hereby patent the idea for my own shilling dreadful.) "What might
it have been—this occurs to me drowsily'—if not a burglar or a ghost ?
A Stowaway. I am dozing off, dreaming of Stowaways, when slowly
the performance begins again—creeee-ak—cree-ak—suddenly crik,
whack! whack!—pause—then, quite as a little surprise, it closes
with a startling whop Bang! like the two beats on the big drum at
the end of some march—the one in the Prophete, I think. I am
sure there are such beings as Imps, mischievous Imps—the spirits,
high spirits of practical jokers yet unborn, or of undeveloped
practical jokers who had only appeared in the world for a few hours,
or weeks, and then—quite in keeping with their character, not
caring what trouble and grief they caused their parents—departed
this life without the slightest explanation. Ilfaut qu'une porte soit
ouverte ou fermee, and if I can only get off my berth to fix it, without
endangering my enfeebled constitution, I will. I raise myself on my
elbow, and regard it interrogatively, as much as to say, "Now are
you going on like this the whole afternoon, or will you be quiet P"
And the Imp in the cupboard seems to understand what is passing
in my mind, for the door remains closed and appears to fit so neatly,
that I can scarcely believe I haven't been dreaming. So I lie down
again and close my eyes.

In a few seconds I am conscious of the wardrobe-door being
stealthily opened with scarcely any noise. I look at it, wondering
what its next move will be, and what mine will be too. It remains
open at right angles, as if hesitating which way to go, when, without
any warning, there is a lurch forward, a roll, and the door gives a sharp
angry creak and whacks the washing-stand on the left, then slams
itself back, then reopens and again attacks the inoffensive washing-
stand, so savagely, that I am compelled to scramble off my berth,
stagger up to the rescue, and with both hands shove the door back to
its proper place. But the handle won't catch. Not being in the
habit of carrying about patent door-fasteners in my pocket, I have no
appliance ready. I am repulsed. I own my defeat, and stagger
back to my berth.

Then the Imp is in ecstasies, creaking, whacking, banging, until
I fear that great damage will be done to the furniture, and I look
in vain forborne means of summoning the Steward, or of attracting
the attention of anyone on deck. But impossible: I see no bell,
and as for calling—my vocal cords are in such a relaxed state that
I can scarcely speak above a whisper. Fortunately at this j uncture
the Steward appears, and in the feeblest accents I draw his attention
to the outrageous conduct of the cupboard-door, as if it were a
living thing, much in the same way as I might have complained to a
keeper of a neighbouring menagerie that the monkey had got loose
again, and was causing us much annoyance.

The Keeper—I mean the Steward—is quite vexed at its mis-
conduct, but deals with it at once ; walking up to it in a masterful
manner—the door not daring to move now, and absolutely quivering
with fear as he approaches,—and then stuffing in a couple of impro-
vised paper wedges, which produce the desired effect.

" There ! " says the Steward, vindictively, as though this was not
the first time the door of this cupboard had played him these tricks,
" I don't think it '11 do it again, Sir."

For a few minutes after the Steward's departure I watch the door
with nervous anxiety; but no, the Imp is bottled up, and the paper
wedges have imprisoned him in the wardrobe as closely as Solomon's
seal did the Genie in the Arabian Nights' tale. So, thankfully I
begin to doze. The lurching and the pitching have ceased to mate-
rially afEect me. I hear the Composer's voice above, and I hope to
goodness that he won't enter into an argument—he seldom talks
without arguing—requiring any great exercise of voice just over my
skylight. But he too is evidently " piano." The " pitch " has been
too high for him. I fancy that he either once more disappears below
or subsides into a chair on deck.

I receive " a refresher " from Nature in the shape of a short sound
sleep, and at seven I am perfectly ready for dinner and a glass of
champagne. We anchor in a quiet bay with a name something like
Maekracken, but as there is nothing much to see here, and as we shall
be off early to-morrow morning, I am not sufficiently interested to
make any further inquiries.

Our party consists of four, Melleville, our host, Cullers the
Composer, and a jovialgentleman withadouble-barrelledname—Fobd-
Bamlt, which only seems to me to require the addition of " and
Co." to constitute him a firm.

First Night on Board.—Awoke early next morning. Usual noise
of scrubbing and rubbing just overhead and within a few inches of
my nose, and the idea oecurs to me that I am buried somewhere
and being walked over !

[ Happy Thought.—Racing notion. " "Walking over a corse!"]

Hauling and pulling and yeo-ho-ing. Not much movement, exoept
an occasional slow swing from one side to the other and then very deli-
berately back again. Presently the rapid rippling of water against the
sides, and I know we are under weigh and gliding on with a fair wind.

On deck. Delightful. I recognise old Jura and other former
acquaintances.

Breakfast.—"We are all on in this scene, and it is, I am bound to say,
a very fair performance taken all round, though one out of the
number does not do sufficient justice to the excellent materials pro-
vided by the author. This one is myself. I explain that as a rule I
am not a breakfast-eater. Cullins explains that as a rule he is, but
is not quite in form this morning, so he only takes fish, poached eggs,
and ham, a little tongue, some marmalade, and then hopes that
" when he gets quite acclimatised he will be able to play a good solo
part, as well as join in the quartette."

For the last week of August, it is fairly warm on deck. Sun
shining sufficiently for us to make some show with our books—which
we never read—and papers and pencils which we never use. So we
sit enjoying existence, far away from the madding crowd, no morning
papers, no afternoon second editions, no sensational news, no possi-
bility of letters or telegrams reaching us—unless postmen pursue us
in special steam-
ers, as we are only
sailing —and no
' 'little accounts,"
nor intimations
that "our Mr.

Jones will call
to - morrow to
receive the sum
of, &c., &c."

"A life on the
Ocean wave, and
a home on the
rolling deep "—
rolling as little
as possible, of
course — by all
means, for these

are the joys—no matter about the sorrows—of such an existence. _

" We '11 never comeback no more, boys!" we feel inclined to sing;
but at some time or other, unless we become Pirates and the Terror
of the Northern Seas, we inevitably must go ashore for provisions.

Epitaph on a Popular Pet.

Alas, poor Jumbo! Here's the fruit
Of faithless Baentjm's greed of gain.

How sad that so well trained a brute
Should owe his exit to a train!

The Ast of Midlothian.—Gladstone's Manifesto.