Punch: Punch (81.1881)

Septemeee 3, 1881.] PUNCH, OU THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 101

to add with, the utmost politeness, " when in the hands of inexperi-
enced people."

That, the Dean observes, does not of course apply to him.

"Not in the least," Hailshee returns, in his most insinuating1
manner. " I mean persons not accustomed to handle fire-arms, and I
really don't think you ever have yours out of your hand."

"Ha! ha!" laughs the Dean,—he is evidently out for a jolly
holiday, and prepared to laugh at anything heartily, and pops again
at the bobbing bottle, while Hailshee gives a slight but perceptible
shudder.

" Breakfast is ready, Sir ! " says the Steward.

"We descend. The Dean disappears into his own cabin for a few
seconds, and returns in, apparently, an entire change of costume.
He is no longer the nautical sportsman, but the country gentleman in
very easy circumstances. I have never seen such al rapid act of
change of costume out of a " variety entertainment." The Composer
arrives late: he is clean, but churlish, having cut himself severely
while trying to shave. He remarks severely on the movement of,the
vessel.

Happy Thought (for the Composer).—Movement in C.
Hailshee says, quietly, " Oh, you'll soon get over that. It's
nothing."

I repeat, " Oh, nothing at all! "—but I have my doubts.

As the Composer warms to his work, or is warmed to his work by
the stimulating tea and coffee, breakfast is a very cheery meal.

'' I shall make a thorough good breakfast now," says the Composer,
taking his third helping of pigeon-pie ; "as, if it's rough-"

[I agree with him, but am silent. I wish he wouldn't talk like
this. Why not avoid, such a subject ? Far better taste not to say a
word about it; specially at our first meal onboard ship.]

"Oh," interrupts Hailshee, smiling in a reassuring way, "we
shan't get out to-day. The Captain says there's too much wind out-
side." [Happy Thought, to myself—-Don't go outside.) "It's not
worth while getting a wetting for nothing."

" The steamer had to face a nasty head-wind," observes Bolly
the Dean. " She could hardly get out."

Now, when I hear that we absolutely can't move from our moor-
ings, all the Columbus-like spirit of maritime adventure rises within
me. I want at once to weigh anchor—to go off somewhere—to discover
new continents—to—to—to do in fact what I've come for, that is to
yacht, which, with me, means to sail, to cruise. If I can't sail and
cruise, why am I here ? Not to sit in a boat, tied stem and stern,
and look at a lot of houses, a pier, and a railway-station P

" Is there no chance of getting away to-day ? " I ask, with a show
of cheerful contentment.

" Not much," replies Hailshee ; " but I propose-"

He pauses, and I brighten up, as he has evidently an idea of
trying to start, and perhaps, like Vatiderdecken, the Flying Dutch-
man, he will get round the point of the bay, even though he battle
with the waves till doomsday.

" Yes," I say, encouragingly, " you are thinking of-"

"Yes," he continues, in his charming and persuasive manner, as
if he were thoroughly agreeing with my idea and letting me have my
way in everything, "yes, I was thinking that we'd have the gig out
after breakfast, and—go ashore."

" Oh yes," I reply, blankly.

Bolbt wants to go on shore for more cartridges.

At which avowed intention Hailshee smiles, and says, "Oh, I
dare say you '11 be able to get them," and evidently devoutly hopes
he won't be able to do anything of the sort.

The Composer takes me aside, and murmurs, "I say, I didn't
come down to go on shore. 1 came to go out yachting."

He is in a grumbling humour. I point out to him that it is neces-
sary to go on shore sometimes for provisions, papers, &c.

" Yes," he says, still grumbling, as if it was all my fault, " but I
want to find out what sort of a sailor I am and how I shall really
like it."

I try to agree with him pleasantly, remembering that he is to be
my " stable companion" for the next ten days.

Name for a novel—" A Life's Trial; or, Tied to a Composer."

A letter-writing fit seizes us all, as if we were starting for the
Antipodes or on an Arctic expedition and leaving England for years.

The gigis ordered. The gig is waiting at (so to speak) the front
door. It is manned by four sailors in oilskin coats and overalls and
sou'-westers tied over the ears. The gig is bumping up and down,
and the yacht suddenly seems to be in motion. We are having a
see-sawing match with the gig. Sometimes the men's heads are on
a line with the bulwarks, and the next second they have so entirely
disappeared that I look over the side nervously, half expecting to see
a man or two clinging to the sides of the yacht, and only the oars and
rudder and perhaps an extra oilskin floating on the surface. But no,
there they are, bobbing up and down—and. now for the first time I
begin to realise that a summer suit of flannels, in fact, a regular lawn-
tennis costume, intended for exercise on a hot August afternoon, is
not the thing to come to sea in—at least, off the coast of North
Britain.

Hailshee puts on a waterproof. Bolby comes out in another
change of costume, including an entirely different sert of hat.
When, subsequently, he returns from shore he comes on deck in
another hat, and after lunch he wears one totally different from the
other three, while in the evening he again startles us with another
novelty on his head. On Sunday perhaps he has a surprise in store
for us in the shape of a College cap. Why not ? There's a College
hornpipe. And what costume could be more appropriate for dancing
in than a nautical College cap ? At present he is in a stout jersey.
He seems to be all Jersey—and part of Guernsey as well. I try to
pretend it's fine weather and very warm, but it won't do ; so, having
got on my ulster, a pair of ordinary thick walking-boots, and pot-
hat, I feel I might as well be on shore, where, in fact, we are going.

Getting into the " gig " is not easy. Hailshee descends first, and
takes the helm. The Dean goes next, and occupies an entire side.
I back down the steps, and put out a leg where I think the boat is—
or where it was when I first put out my leg, and where it will be
again presently—at least 1 hope so—and remain in the attitude of a
Flying Mercury.

Leave go of the rope, Sir," says the stroke.

Oh, yes !—but where will I be then ? And I pause.

"Get on!" says Cellins the Composer above, in a desperate
hurry, as if the yacht were on lire, and he were the last to make his
escape.

" It's all very well to say ' Get on !' " I remonstrate, " but-

and before I can find a safe place for my foot, I receive a stunning
blow on the head from the irritable Composer, who, obstinately
descending the ladder, comes bump on to my hat. Nothing so
irritating as a'man recklessly injuring your hat, specially when it's
on your head, and it is impossible for me, even before the Dean, to
avoid jerking out a " big, big D," as I fall back, like Chatham, into
the arms of the attendants—I mean I fall against the Coxswain, who
sturdily supports me, and places me on a seat.

"Couldn't help it," says the Composer, by way of apology;
" you ought to have been quicker."

I am about to retort severely—when I once more remember he is
to be my " stable companion " for the next ten days, and it's no use
having a row with your partner.

" Give way ! " cries the stroke.

Happy Thought (as regards my conduct towards the Composer).
" Give way." I do.

We are off for shore. Big waves. Wind and drizzle. Hailshee
the near-sighted, steering, and asking "Which way?" as he goes
along, occasionally inquiring "What's that?" when_we are just
into a vessel riding at anchor. Finally, we reach the slippery steps,
bow grapples them with his boat-hook, we struggle on to the quay,
and Hailshee, as he finds his eye-glass and looks back on to the
boat, as if to discover how on earth he had got there at all, and what
sort of a thing he had come in, observes, with a kind of nervous
diffidence, but still with some complacency, " Oh, I thought the steps
were farther down : I didn't see they were here. It's a difficult bit,
and I am as blind as a bat. However," he adds cheerfully, "here
we are!"

We all say that nothing could be better, and congratulating him
on his successful steering, and ourselves on arriving safely, we
proceed to examine the town of Stranraer.

A SEA-SIDE BEVEBIE.

I think, as I sit at my ease on the shingle,
And list to the musical voice of the Sea,
How gaily my Landlady always will mingle

From my little caddy her matutine tea._
And vainly the bitter remembrance I banish

Of mutton just eaten, my heart is full sore,
To think after one cut it's certain to vanish,
And never be seen on my board any more.

Some small store of spirit to moisten my throttle

I keep, and indulge in it once in a way;
But bless you it seems to fly out of the bottle
And swiftly decrease, though untouched all
the day.

My sugar and sardines, my bread and my butter,
Are eaten, and vainly I fret and I frown ;

My Landlady, just like an iEsthete's too utter
A fraud, and I vow that I '11 go back to Town.

ieish maxims,

IE a Landlord would only reside on his property long enough, he'd
never be shot. ' ,

What we want in Ireland is Landlords who won't take any rent,
and spend the money freely.