DOI issue:
May 2, 1874
DOI Page / Citation link:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16938#0192
188
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[May 2, 1874.
OUR NEW NOVEL.
ONE-AND-THREE!
By FICTOR NOGO.
PAET THE FIKST—ALL AT SEA.
Book the Second.
Y.— Quodcunque vis, meus parvus carus.
The Cook’s name was Pott.
It was a struggle between Pott and Kettle.
All watched in terrified silence.
No one spoke to the Man at the Wheel.
The struggle began.
“ Kettle began it,” muttered Le Brun to himself, quoting from
the Cricket on the Hearth. This fearful duel between Pott and
Kettle was the nearest thing to Cricket on the Hearth that he had
yet seen. Ttwas Skittles in the Kitchen, it was Polo in the Pantry,
it was Football in
the Larder. Thus it
chanced that he
quoted unconsciously.
Otherwise, it was not
a time for quotations.
The whole happened
iu a half-light. It is
not often that you
find a whole in a half.
The boiling tin
Kettle against the
Cook, bold as brass.
It was tin against
brass. Metal against
mettle.
“Come on, carn’t
yer! ” said the Man.
The Kettle seemed
to listen ; then, with
a whisking noise, and
spouting forth an
overflow of boiling
soup, it rushed at him.
He, supple, agile,
adroit, glided away out
of reach of these light-
ning-like movements.
The hissing mon-
ster turned, and came
at hirm With its
spout, like a bird’s
beak. It sprang sud-
denly upon the Cook,
and pecked him.
“Keep up your
gecker,” said Le
'RUN, from the head
of the stairs on the
upper deck. He could
sneer, even in the
face of danger.
The Cook screwed himself noiselessly out of his jacket, and slid
away. The senseless Kettle tore the garment to shreds.
Then the Cook rushed at the handle, as a Spanish Matador will
seize a bull by the tail. Far safer than acting by the proverb, and
taking him by the horns. Proverbs are not Practice. Even a wise
saw has no wisdom teeth.
The handle came off in the man’s grasp.
For a second the Kettle was puzzled at its loss. Then it showed
its nails. They were not claws, they were not talons: simply nails.
With fury redoubled by the indignity, it seemed to say, “Come,
I’ve lost my tail: I must put an end to this, somehow.” Then, in
blind rage, hissing and steaming, it rushed upon the defeated Cook.
“ Give it one in the eye! ” shouted Commander Johannes, from
above.
The Cook, armed with a spit, attempted to act upon this advice.
The Kettle had no eye, only a lid. This latter he failed to wound.
The Furious Monster was on him, and, in another moment, the
doom of the Man would have been sealed.
But for the Mysterious Passenger, Massabones, on the com-
panion.
It flashed across him. An Inspiration. A memory of his early
childhood. Kettles sang—he sang. Now he sang loudly. He sang
wisely, but not well.
The Kettle paused in its fierce onslaught. The Monster seemed to
remember the time when it, too, sat on a hob, singing.
Clearly the creature was moved. Its lid trembled, and more than
one drop trickled down its sides. Taking advantage of this mo-
mentary weakness, the Cook scrambled on his legs, and catching the
machine a stupendous kick, sent it over, sprawling, on its side, spent,
helpless: an inert, inanimate mass. Such a feat as this was only )
possible to one who had been brought up as the Son of a Sea Cook.
It was ended. The Man had conquered the Monster. The Cow 1
had jumped over the Moon. The Pott had conquered the Kettle.
The whole Crew hurried down the companion.
But the soup was boiled away to nothing.
“ Sir,” said the Cook to the distinguished Passenger, “ I owe you
my life.” And he handed him a paper with three letters on it. They
were I. 0. IJ.
The old man answered nothing. He appeared to be dead to what
was going on around him. And more than dead, he was buried in
thought.
A wonderful thing is steam. In an instant the kettle was securelv
lashed.
“Now,” said the
dignified Passenger,
whom the Sailors only
knew as Massabones,
“ the Kettle has been
lashed, let the Cook
be lashed, too.”
The Ship’s Chap-
lain, who, throughout
the danger, had been
seated on the main-
topgallant mizen,
reading the Act of
Uniformity, now de-
scended, and prepared
the Man for his fate.
The Cat with nine
tails—the last of its
marvellous species —
was brought out.
Le Bren, Johannes,
and Bobin son fils
bowed to the Pas-
senger.
“You are the
General,” they said;
“ and a General al-
ways gives orders on
board ship.”
“ Then,” said the
stately Passenger,
“pitch him over.”
They pitched him
all over.
YI.—Out with a Sail,
in with a Lottery.
The Sea rocked the
vessel threateningly.
Since she had been
on her cradle she had
never been so rocked.
The damage done by the Kettle of fish was irreparable.
The Marquis de Bobbilot spoke to the Man at the Wheel.
“ Where are we now ? ”
“ Here,” replied the Man, vaguely.
_ Neither one thing nor the other—such is the Sailor. A man is
either a bad sailor, or a good sailor. To the former the answer had
a disquieting significance. The motto of the Ocean is “ rough and
ready.” The Sea was ready—it was going to be rough.
Ships in the offing. Ready to blow the Ringdove out of the water.
The water ready to sink the Rmgdove.
Le Brun cried aloud, in his brave merriment, “ Here’s a go ! ”
YII.—a x — y.
The Ship was little more than a wreck.
The Captain put his glass in his eye.
“ I see the rocks.”
“You see double,” answered the Pilot.
“ It’s all up with us,” said the Captain, looking at the ships-of-
war.
“ Or all down,” said the Pilot, looking at the rocks.
“ What are those rocks F ” asked the Marquis de Bobbilot.
“ Blue Rocks,” answered the Pilot.
“ Blue Rocks ! Then we are near Hurlingham.”
“ A good shot of yours,” replied Bdbin son fils.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
[May 2, 1874.
OUR NEW NOVEL.
ONE-AND-THREE!
By FICTOR NOGO.
PAET THE FIKST—ALL AT SEA.
Book the Second.
Y.— Quodcunque vis, meus parvus carus.
The Cook’s name was Pott.
It was a struggle between Pott and Kettle.
All watched in terrified silence.
No one spoke to the Man at the Wheel.
The struggle began.
“ Kettle began it,” muttered Le Brun to himself, quoting from
the Cricket on the Hearth. This fearful duel between Pott and
Kettle was the nearest thing to Cricket on the Hearth that he had
yet seen. Ttwas Skittles in the Kitchen, it was Polo in the Pantry,
it was Football in
the Larder. Thus it
chanced that he
quoted unconsciously.
Otherwise, it was not
a time for quotations.
The whole happened
iu a half-light. It is
not often that you
find a whole in a half.
The boiling tin
Kettle against the
Cook, bold as brass.
It was tin against
brass. Metal against
mettle.
“Come on, carn’t
yer! ” said the Man.
The Kettle seemed
to listen ; then, with
a whisking noise, and
spouting forth an
overflow of boiling
soup, it rushed at him.
He, supple, agile,
adroit, glided away out
of reach of these light-
ning-like movements.
The hissing mon-
ster turned, and came
at hirm With its
spout, like a bird’s
beak. It sprang sud-
denly upon the Cook,
and pecked him.
“Keep up your
gecker,” said Le
'RUN, from the head
of the stairs on the
upper deck. He could
sneer, even in the
face of danger.
The Cook screwed himself noiselessly out of his jacket, and slid
away. The senseless Kettle tore the garment to shreds.
Then the Cook rushed at the handle, as a Spanish Matador will
seize a bull by the tail. Far safer than acting by the proverb, and
taking him by the horns. Proverbs are not Practice. Even a wise
saw has no wisdom teeth.
The handle came off in the man’s grasp.
For a second the Kettle was puzzled at its loss. Then it showed
its nails. They were not claws, they were not talons: simply nails.
With fury redoubled by the indignity, it seemed to say, “Come,
I’ve lost my tail: I must put an end to this, somehow.” Then, in
blind rage, hissing and steaming, it rushed upon the defeated Cook.
“ Give it one in the eye! ” shouted Commander Johannes, from
above.
The Cook, armed with a spit, attempted to act upon this advice.
The Kettle had no eye, only a lid. This latter he failed to wound.
The Furious Monster was on him, and, in another moment, the
doom of the Man would have been sealed.
But for the Mysterious Passenger, Massabones, on the com-
panion.
It flashed across him. An Inspiration. A memory of his early
childhood. Kettles sang—he sang. Now he sang loudly. He sang
wisely, but not well.
The Kettle paused in its fierce onslaught. The Monster seemed to
remember the time when it, too, sat on a hob, singing.
Clearly the creature was moved. Its lid trembled, and more than
one drop trickled down its sides. Taking advantage of this mo-
mentary weakness, the Cook scrambled on his legs, and catching the
machine a stupendous kick, sent it over, sprawling, on its side, spent,
helpless: an inert, inanimate mass. Such a feat as this was only )
possible to one who had been brought up as the Son of a Sea Cook.
It was ended. The Man had conquered the Monster. The Cow 1
had jumped over the Moon. The Pott had conquered the Kettle.
The whole Crew hurried down the companion.
But the soup was boiled away to nothing.
“ Sir,” said the Cook to the distinguished Passenger, “ I owe you
my life.” And he handed him a paper with three letters on it. They
were I. 0. IJ.
The old man answered nothing. He appeared to be dead to what
was going on around him. And more than dead, he was buried in
thought.
A wonderful thing is steam. In an instant the kettle was securelv
lashed.
“Now,” said the
dignified Passenger,
whom the Sailors only
knew as Massabones,
“ the Kettle has been
lashed, let the Cook
be lashed, too.”
The Ship’s Chap-
lain, who, throughout
the danger, had been
seated on the main-
topgallant mizen,
reading the Act of
Uniformity, now de-
scended, and prepared
the Man for his fate.
The Cat with nine
tails—the last of its
marvellous species —
was brought out.
Le Bren, Johannes,
and Bobin son fils
bowed to the Pas-
senger.
“You are the
General,” they said;
“ and a General al-
ways gives orders on
board ship.”
“ Then,” said the
stately Passenger,
“pitch him over.”
They pitched him
all over.
YI.—Out with a Sail,
in with a Lottery.
The Sea rocked the
vessel threateningly.
Since she had been
on her cradle she had
never been so rocked.
The damage done by the Kettle of fish was irreparable.
The Marquis de Bobbilot spoke to the Man at the Wheel.
“ Where are we now ? ”
“ Here,” replied the Man, vaguely.
_ Neither one thing nor the other—such is the Sailor. A man is
either a bad sailor, or a good sailor. To the former the answer had
a disquieting significance. The motto of the Ocean is “ rough and
ready.” The Sea was ready—it was going to be rough.
Ships in the offing. Ready to blow the Ringdove out of the water.
The water ready to sink the Rmgdove.
Le Brun cried aloud, in his brave merriment, “ Here’s a go ! ”
YII.—a x — y.
The Ship was little more than a wreck.
The Captain put his glass in his eye.
“ I see the rocks.”
“You see double,” answered the Pilot.
“ It’s all up with us,” said the Captain, looking at the ships-of-
war.
“ Or all down,” said the Pilot, looking at the rocks.
“ What are those rocks F ” asked the Marquis de Bobbilot.
“ Blue Rocks,” answered the Pilot.
“ Blue Rocks ! Then we are near Hurlingham.”
“ A good shot of yours,” replied Bdbin son fils.