Punch: Punch (78.1880)

March 20, 18S0.J

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

129

Confute all the ascertained facts of geology,
Square Science with Faith and the Hebrew
chronology.

So, unless you’d exhibit yourself as a fine
ass,

You ’ll believe in and swear by St. Thomas
Aquinas.

A RACE IN THE DARK.

Private ancl Confidential.

Dear Editor,

Nothing very new to say about the
race eh? The “Blue Biband of the
Thames,” and the “Modern Isthmian
Games” (Isthmus wasn’t a river, by the
way, was it ?) have been done to death. So
I have had to fall back upon the hour.

Believe me, ’Varsities show their feather-
ing best after sunrise.

Yours sincerely,

Your Own Man.

[From Mr. Punch's Prophetic Reporter.']

The light was burning brightly in the
Clock Tower, as the most obstructive of
the Obstructionists put on his coat, and,
leaving the Government whip to keep a
House, made his way towards Putney. He
smiled to himself as he passed under the
glimmering gas-lamps and thought of the
disappointment in store for the weary
Cabinet Ministers.

“ When they rise, bedad ’twill be over!”
he murmured, as he with difficulty avoided
the contact of a carriage containing a young
couple returning prematurely from a small
and early dance. At this moment Big Ben
boomed a very small hour in the morning.
“ Ah, thin,” he added, springing aside nim-
bly, “that might have been very bad, if I
hadn’t been a masther in the art of Obstruc-
tion.” And he hailed a Hansom, to which a
new night-horse had just been harnessed.

The vehicle swept along in the direction
of the river. The roads were thronged
with a motley crowd of patricians and
plebeians. Spring carts, cabs, and carriages
of every description clashed and collided
in the gloom. The moon was veiled: not
a star was visible in the sky. Here and
there a coffee or a roasted-chestnut esta-
blishment flung for a few feet round its
ruddy glow of lighted charcoal. Occasion-
ally an obliging constable would dissipate
a narrow circle of the darkness by a wink of
his bull’s eye. But, take it all in all, the
picture was dark, dank and dismal.

Now and again a gentleman in evening
dress would let down the window of his
brougham to ask for a paper. Then came
a rush of newsboys, anxious to sell the
remaining copies of the Special Edition of
the Evening Standard. It was impossible
to say who was present. The most respect-
able members of society, ashamed to be
found abroad at so late an hour, tried to
hide their identity. An occasional glimpse
might be caught of a canonical hat. Once
even a pair of archiepiscopal gaiters seemed
to twinkle through the gloom. But, as a
rule, among the Upper Ten, concealment
was the order of the day, or rather night.

The scene on the river was worthy of the
Nocturnal Art of a "Whistler; it was an
arrangement in black and dark grey, with
here and there a splash of red or a streak of
ye’lov, to represent the glow of a coffee-
stall or ihe glimmer of a street lamp.
The. short, sharp puff from the chimney,
the splash of the paddles, or the throb of
the screw, were the only indications of the
approach of a hundred-guinea steamer.
The police-boats could only discover the

MANNERS.

Master George (a very naughty loy, to new French Nurse).
l’Onglay ? ”

Caroline, compp.ennt-vous

Caroline. “Non, Monsieur Georges.”

Master George. “Quel dommage ! Pas tjn Mot ?”

Caroline. “Pas un Mot, Monsieur Georges.”

Master George. “ Alors apporty-moi mes Bottes, si vous play, you old Beast!”

whereabouts of obstructive barges in the University fashion—by bumping. The wonder was,
how the course was ever cleared.

As the hour approached for the start there was a hush all along the line, broken only
here and there by a more than usually irrepressible yawn. These signs of fatigue, it was
observable, came from the more aristocratic sightseers. The rest of the crowd, composed
largely of artisans enjoying an unwonted diversion before commencing their day’s work,
was wide-awake, and even lively. Our Obstructionist had patiently waited at Mortlake
for some time when he noticed a movement amongst the bystanders. He pulled out his
watch, and by the aid of a courteous policeman’s bull’s-eye, managed with difficulty to make
out the hour. “ Faix, it’s too bad ! It’s almost time to go to bed! ” he exclaimed. Then
turning to the policeman, he asked “When they were coming ? ”

“ Is it the crews, Sir?” replied the Constable, in whom he was pleased to recognise a
compatriot. “ Sure the race is over ! ”

“ Over—and I’ve had to pay my cab for nothing ! ” angrily cried the M.P. “ Sure ’tis
just the way the Saxon always treats us ? ”

Curiosity, however, conquering indignation, he deigned at length to ask his fellow
countryman,

“ But tell me, which is the winner—Oxford or Cambridge ? ”

“ Divil a one of me knows that, Sir,” said'the Constable, scratching his head. “Nor any-
body else. It was too dark entirely to see the finish! But sure, Sir, you ’ll be able to read
all about it by-and-by in the morning papers.”

And wishing his questioner Good night, the kindly son of Erin proceeded on his round.

But the Obstructionist was a determined man. His practice in the House had taught
him that no man is beaten till he owns it. *Within half an hour he had exhausted all
inquiry. Alas! his labour was in vain. He tried to. find the fountain-heads of infor-
mation. Starter, umpires, judge, strokes, and coxswains—all connected with the contest,
were already fast asleep and snoring!

And so in darkness and doubt ended the University Boat Race of March the 19th or 20th,.
1880.