Punch: Punch (81.1881)

100 PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI [September 3, 1881.

FIRST OF SEPTEMBER-SOMETHING LIKE A BATTUE!

Or, The Result of High Farming and the Extermination of the Partridge.

ON BOARD THE " AMARINTHA."

{Extracts from a short Holiday Log.)

The Bath in the cabin-floor. I take it in a sort of nervous, hasty
way, not liking to lie down in it without, at all events, holding- on
to the sides, having a sort of nervous dread of the bottom suddenly
coming out, and dropping me into the sea. Then what would
happen ? I couldn't call " Steward ! " There's no bell, my shrieks
would be stifled, and before anyone had time to ask, '' Where is
he P Why doesn't he come to breakfast ?" the water, which I
believe has a knack of always rising to its own level, would rush up,
and, in fact, there'd be an end of the yacht—she'd disappear—
scuttled. That's one idea of the Bath in the floor. Then there's
another for a Sensation Scene in a Melodrama—something for
Messrs. Meritt and Harris at Drury Lane. The stage could
represent the cabin—(beautiful cabin Drury Lane stage would
make!)—trap-door in Centre—villain, disguised as Steward, turns
on the tap of sea-water, and allures Victim into Bath—music
pianissimo and tremolo as Victim descends—Steward shuts down
the lid quickly, drags portmanteau over it, and stands on it,
breathing heavily, when suddenly he starts, for through the
skylight above he perceives the eye of the Mate on him ! !
Aha! the Mate's silence must be bought ! But at what
price ? I don't exactly know why the Steward should treat the
Victim in this manner; bat this is a detail which I can consider
while I'm brushing my hair, and so get round to the beginning of
the plot. The Victim must of course escape—but how r Under-
currents could wash him rapidly out to sea, one undercurrent
bringing him up for breath, and another taking him miles away
from shore—and—— Yes, that's it-■

Just as I've got to this point, CuLiiisrs the Composer looks in, to
remind me that he has to share the cabin, and the sooner I clear out
the better. "In five minutes you shall have it all to yourself," is
my ready reply. I generally make it "five minutes." It is
like five shillings, a tangible sum, and it has the advantage over five
shillings, as it must be taken colloquially to mean any time up to
half an hour—at least, that's my idea of "five minutes." It's a
pleasant way of getting over a difficulty, and inspires the other party
with hopefulness. A man writes to say " he wants five minutes' chat
with you." It reads nicely and lightly: it really means at least an
hour's earnest conversation on matters involving the interests of a
life-time, probably destroys a whole day, and knocks every other
previously made arrangement out of time. Give a man five minutes'
chat and he '11 take an hour's conversation. " Five minutes " has an
exact, well-calculated and business-like sound.

In this particular instance—there are my bags to unpack, the
things to be put into the lockers, the dressing things (mine) to be
arranged, so as to secure places (as it were) before the rush of
CrjLLijrs into the cabin, when he will find all the best seats gone. I
take for granted that he won't attempt to re-arrange everything on
his plan. In order to avoid this sort of Box and Cox life in a cabin,
we shall have to fix some clear and definite line of demarcation. He

looks in again. He observes, somewhat crustily, " It's ten minutes
since he was last there." I can only reply with an air of astonish-
ment, " Is it, indeed?" adding in my most soothing and pleasant
manner, "Well, old fellow, I shan't be five minutes more."

He growls out something about breakfast being just ready and
they won't wait, from which I infer that with these precautionary
measures of mine / shall be in time for that meal and he won't. I
comfort myself with the reflection that Curlens is a quick dresser (1
don't know that he is), and that perhaps after all this is only a ruse
on his part to get me out. If it is a ruse, I can give myself an extra
five minutes just to teach him (as we are going to be cabin'd and
cribb'd together for the next ten days) that he must always deal
with me straightforwardly and truthfully.

At last he, so to speak, bursts into the room. The smell of the
coffee and the ham and eggs has excited him beyond measure; he
scents the breakfast afar off, and won't wait any longer. He is
almost violent. He is, he says, "ravenous." So ami, I tell him,
in a tone of reproval, intended to convey that, though ravenous, I
can still be courteous.

"Yes," he says, brusquely, "but you're dressed and all ready.
I'm not. At least," he corrects himself, "I'm ready as far as
appetite goes, but-"

"Rough as far as manners go," I suggest.

" Oh, you be blowed ! Do get out," he exclaims.

And I do get out, for I remember that he is to be, as Hailsher
puts it, "my stable companion" for ten days, and it won't do to
begin with a row.

I've known Cellen'S the Composer for years—out of a cabin, but
have never yet had any experience of him in one. "Music hath
charms to soothe the savage breast"—but it doesn't seem to have
had its usual magic effect on Cttllews. Odd. Perhaps it's the
sea-air that's bringing it out of him, or the combined effects of the
sea-air, hunger, a long and restless journey from town, and disap-
pointment at not having a cabin all to himself. I ascend "the
companion," leaving my " stable companion " in the cabin.

Though we are moored stern and stem, yet there is an undulating
motion, and the sea—(is it the sea ?—I am not quite sure, as we 're
in full view of the town and pier, and land on each side of us for
miles)—and the sea—(or whatever it is—it's salt, I know that from
the Bath)—is decidedly rough—in fact, very rough. There is a
stiffish breeze. There are several other yachts in the bay. Is it a
"bay" ? It looks like it. By the way, where are we ? Scotland.
Yes, I'm aware of that fact; also, we are off Stranraer. But what
is this bay called ? Oh, we are in Loch Ryan. (ISTot a bay—wrong
again.) "Ryan" is decidedly an Irish name. "Yes," the Dean
explains in his jovial manner, "there are lots of Irish in Stranraer—
it's the nearest point for the Irish coast." And then he takes up
his rook-shooter, and has another pop at a bottle floating in the
water, and tied by a string to the stern. "Capital practice," he
says.

Hailsher, our host, quietly remarks that it must be excellent
practice, and that the Dean evidently wants a lot of it,_but that for
his own part he has a nervous horror of fire-arms ; that is, he hastens