Punch (95.1888)

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. [September 22, 1888.

136

DUE NORTH.

Fellow Passengers—Discussions— Information—Diversion—''Arry—
New Coinage—Dinnei—Contentment—Whist—All's Well—
Retirement,

There is a Positive Man on board, -with, a quiet wife and a
"pocket telescope." The Positive Man is full of information as to
every object of interest on the banks, and is invariably wrong.

_ " That 's Rosherville, ' the place to spend a happy day,' " he tells
his wife, in a waggish vein, pointing out a pier, some trees and houses.

"No, Sir," says a trim-looking fellow-passenger, with an insinu-
ating manner, that's Greenwich. Rosherville is farther down."

" Oh—ah—yes," says the Positive Man, as he takes a good look at

Mist again! By an Impressionist.

G-reenwich, and then exclaims, as if he now recognised it perfectly,
" Of course it is. I meant Greenwich when I said Rosherville.
Then, turning to his wife,—"That's Greenwich, where the Chelsea.
Pensioners are." And again he is corrected by the Trim Man, who
has in his hand Dickens's Dictionary of the Thames, which he inva-
riably consults before volunteering any information.

Hobson, in his kindliest humour, confides to me that he is deeply
interested in an elderly Gentleman, evidently travelling alone, who
has not spoken to anyone, and is always taking a few hurried
steps from one side of the vessel to the other, and nervously examin-
ing the banks on both sides through his field-glasses, as though he
were expecting a friend from shore to come out in a boat and join
him. The friend doesn't come, and the lonely traveller—(there
used to be a piece called The Lonely Man of the Ocean. Can this
be its hero ?)—becomes more and more restless every minute.

" It is not easy to distinguish objects along the shore," observes
Hobson, approaching the subject delicately.

The Restless Passenger, still looking anxiously through the field-
glasses, replies slowly,—

"No, it isn't. But," he continues, in a plaintive tone, "I can't
—see—where—the Royal Albert Docks are P"

" No ? " returns Hobson, with an air of cheerful surprise, and then,
out of sheer good-nature, he begins looking about everywhere for the
Royal Albert Docks, with the evident purpose, should he find them,
of at once presenting them to the Restless Passenger.

"Ah, surely!" exclaims the Restless Man, "those are the Royal
Albert Docks "—and he focuses a block of buildings, and the tops of
a crowd of masts, which he can just see in the distance.

" That's Erith," says the Positive Man.

"Is it?" says Hobson, ready to agree with him, for the sake of
making things pleasant all round.

"No—that's not Erith," says the Trim Passenger, fresh from a
surreptitious dip into his Guide-book, " that's Tilbury Fort."

"There's the Arsenal," says the Positive Man, after a short pause.

"What Arsenal, dear P " asks his wife.
Why, Woolwich Arsenal, of course," he answers, with an air of
superior knowledge.

."No, that's not Woolwich Arsenal," says the Trim Passenger,
with a short apologetic cough just to break the intelligence gently to
the Positive Man, " that's Gravesend."

« Gravesend ! " repeats the Positive Man, scornfully.
I don t think it can be Woolwich Arsenal, dear," objects his wife,
timidly,, or why should ' Rosherville.' be written up in large letters ?''

This is a facer for the Positive Man, who growls out " Umph!
Yery odd . , and seems by his manner to imply that some one has
been tampering with the names of the localities just to spite him per-
sonally. Subsequently regaining confidence, from the fact that, in
the absence of the man with the Guide-book, on two occasions his
statements have passed unchallenged, he points out Limestone Works
as the Royal Albert Docks, and is immediately contradicted by a
chorus of bystanders, who, unfortunately for him, see "Limestone
Works" as clearly written up as his wife had previously seen '' Rosher-

ville." The Positive Man, defeated, shuts up his pocket telescope with
a sharp click, like the Duke of Wellington on a totally dissimilar
occasion, and walks away. Happy Thought.—He and his telescope
both shut up.

With the laudable desire of diverting the Restless Man from his
monomania about the Albert Docks, Hobson remarks, with an air of
lively interest, "Where are the great Sewage Works? I don't
see them."

'' Your nose will be of more use to you than your eyes when you
come within two miles of them." drily observes a little withered-up,
wiry man, like an elderly Scotch terrier. The ladies eye the
last speaker with a look of intense disgust, and the little wiry
man's observation would be passed over in pitying silence by the
company generally, as if they forgave him this once, and wouldn't say
anything about it if he didn't do it again, but for the youthful
leader of the'Arries, in grey flannel shirt with sham, collars and
cuft's, who comes out with a loud laugh, which is immediately
echoed by his admiring companions, and exclaims,—

" That's rather thick, that is! " And his followers chorus irregu-
larly,—"Yes, that was rather thick."

It is the first time I've come across the word " thick." It bothers
me. I don't see its immediate application.

The little old wiry Scotch-terrier man evidently understands what
"thick " means, as he takes it in a complimentary sense, and forth-
with fraternises with 'Ashy and his band.

"Come and 'ave some lotion, old man," says 'Ahsy the Eirst,
patronisingly, to his new acquaintance, who must be forty years his
senior. The sun-dried old chip of a very old block, with wiry
iron-grey hair, replies that "he doesn't mind if he does take a
lotion." Whereupon, all the 'Arry band shout with laughter, and
their leader declares openly that in his opinion the little withered-up
old man is " a thick 'un—a regular thick 'un" ; and "this is the
verdict of them all," as following their foreman, the jury of 'Arries
descend the companion, and disappear with their new acquaintance.

"Dinner at two," says the Steward, "when we're oft Southend.
You can have anything now, if you like, Sir ? "

Ominous question. Now—or never ? No ; I '11 wait till two, and
chance it.

A tall, languid person, in a deerstalker and an ulster, whom I
have noticed for some time standing near us, and who, I fancy, is
waiting patiently for the reversion of my campstool,—which he
won't obtain, as I carry it with me wherever I go,—observes, in the
patronising tone of a man who wishes it to be understood , that he is
accustomed to frequent only the " hupper suckles " of Society,—

" Rather an absurd hour for dinner,—two ? "

"Except," I say, " when you 're hungry, and then any hour is a
good hour for dinner."

'' And," he continues, without noticing my reservation, and speak-
ing severely at me, as if the hours for meals were of my choosing, " I
suppose, tea at seven, and a heavy breakfast at eight in the morning.
All this sort of thing upsets the digestion. It's impossible to feed
at such a ridiculous hour."

"Ten to two ! " exclaims Hobson joyfully, and I am grateful for
the interruption as the languid man is inclined to adopt a bullying
tone towards me. " This m doing you good, eh ? Didn't I say so ? "

Then as I follow him in his blithesome skip towards the companion,
he pauses, and, as if he had a rare treat in store for me, whispers,
with a confidential chuckle, " I've secured the two best seats at the
head of the table next to the Captain ! Aha ! " And elated beyond
measure with the success of this last instance of his forethought—all
on my account I am convinced, and not the least on his own—he
trips down the stairs, and in another five minutes the bell announces
feeding time, and the passengers troop in and take their places on
either side ot a long table at the head of which is the Captain, a fine
upstanding middle-aged man in a nautical uniform, who bows
reverently over a huge steaming joint of boiled beef rising out of a
sea of pale turnipy gravy, says grace, in which all those who have
contracted with the steward for their meals heartily join,—and then
he sets to work to carve for his hungry family of sixty persons, and
appears as Captain Cakveb, playing the part to perfection until
further notice, which is given by himself only when he is thoroughly
exhausted.

Dinner.—Saloon cool. No smell to speak of. Motion of ship
rather more perceptible here than on deck; but hunger is a sharp thorn.

Happy Thought.—The test of qualmishness has arrived, if I can
stand this, the " biled mutton and bilious sauce," and the strange
manners and customs of some of my immediate neighbours, who
evidently are of opinion that fingers were made, not only before forks,
but before toothpicks, I can stand anything. I do; and what is
more, enjoy the dinner and the Captain's conversation—but not the
manners and customs aforesaid—immensely.

As a precaution, and to make assurance doubly sure, Hobson pro-
poses a bottle of champage. Why, certainly,: quite a Happy Thought.

I notice that the languid person who thinks two o'clock a prepos-
terous and absurd hour for dinner, is doing remarkably well, in
spite of the absurdity of the idea. As for the "high contracting