_Monday._--Dear old Bluewater--what a good fellow he is!--asks me to
join his yacht, the _Sudden Jerk_, for Cowes week. Never been yachting
before.
_Tuesday._--Arrive Ryde Pier, correctly (I hope) "got up"; blue serge,
large brass anchor buttons, and peaked cap. Fancy Bluewater rather
surprised to see how _au fait_ I am at nautical dress. "Ah! my dear
fellow, delighted to see you. Come along; the gig is lying alongside the
steps. One of the hands" (why "hands"?) "shall look to your traps." We
scramble into gig and are rowed out to 50-ton yawl. Climb up side.
Bluewater says, "Come below. Take care--two steps down, then turn round
and---- Oh! by Jove! what a crack you've caught your head. Never mind,
old boy, you'll soon get accustomed to it." Devoutly hope I shall _not_
get accustomed to knocking my head. Arrive at foot of "companion" (why
"companion"?) stairs. Bluewater pulls aside curtains and says, "_There_
you are!" Reply, "Oh! yes, there I am. Er--is--do you lie on the
shelf--oh! berth, is it!--beg pardon--or underneath it?" He explains.
"You'll find it very jolly, you know; you can lie in your bunk, and look
right up the companion to the sky above." "Oh! awfully jolly," I say.
We repair on deck. Get under weigh to run down to Cowes. Dear old
Bluewater very active. Pulls at ropes and things, shouting
"leggo-your-spinach-and-broom,"[A] and other unintelligible war-cries.
Stagger across deck. Breeze very fresh. "Lee oh!" shouts Bluewater;
"mind the broom!"--or it might have been boom--and next moment am
knocked flat on my back by enormous pole.
Arrive Cowes. Crowd of yachts. Drop anchor for night. Go below, damp
face in tiny iron basin; yacht lurches and rolls all the water out over
new white shoes. Enter saloon, tripping over some one's kit-bag at the
door. Try to save myself by clutching at swing-table, which upsets and
empties soup tureen all over my trousers. Retire, change, return. Host
and I sit down and proceed to chase fried soles backwards and forwards
across treacherous swing-table. "_Now_, my dear fellow isn't this
jolly? Isn't this worth all your club dinners?" Reply "Oh, yes,"
enthusiastically. Privately, should prefer club in London. Weather gets
worse. Try to smoke. Don't seem to care for smoking, somehow. Feel
depressed, and ask dear old Bluewater to describe a sailor's grave.
Tries to cheer me up by saying, "Don't waste the precious moments, my
friend, on such sad subjects. You are not born to fill a seaman's grave.
There's a class of man not born to be drowned, you know." Then he laughs
heartily. Try to smile; fail. Pitching and rocking motion increases.
Retire early and lie down on shelf. Fall off twice. Manage to reach
perch again. Weather gets worse. Shall never sleep with noise of
trampling on deck and waves washing yacht's sides. Shall never----
Sudden misgiving. _Am_ I going to be----? Oh! no, must be passing
dizziness. It cannot possibly be.... IT IS!!!
Am rowed ashore, bag and baggage, next morning. Dear old Bluewater tries
to keep me from going, and says, "What, after all, _is_ sea-sickness?"
Dear old Bluewater must be an ass. Confound old Bluewater!
[Footnote A: Qy. spinnaker boom.--ED.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE EXCURSION.
_Head of Family._ "I reckon some of us'll have to stand, or we shan't
all get seats!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: CAUSE AND EFFECT
_Mrs. Brown._ "I had such a lovely bathe last Thursday, dear."
_Niece._ "That was the day of the tidal wave, wasn't it, Auntie?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: How Stonehenge might be popularised if the Government
bought it. Suggestion gratis.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Full-sized Tripper._ "How does one get into the
churchyard, please?"
_Simple Little Native._ "Through this 'ere 'ole!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Walking Tourist._ "What's the name of this village, my
man?"
_Yokel._ "Oi dunno, zur. Oi only bin 'ere a month!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW
_Fair Yankee_ (_in Egypt_). "I say, uncle, can yew tell me, air there
ever any new camels? I guess all I've seen must be second-hand!"]
* * * * *
AN UNCONGENIAL SPOT FOR TEETOTALERS.--Barmouth.
* * * * *
A MAN WHO BEATS ABOUT THE BUSH.--An Australian.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "IN PERIL OF PRECIPITATION"--_Coriolanus_, iii. 3.
_Stout Party._ "Hi! boy, stop! I'm going to get off."
_Donkey Boy._ "Yer carn't, marm. There ain't room!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: DETECTED.--_Clerical Tourist_ (_visiting cathedral_).
"Always open, eh? And do you find that people come here on week-days for
rest and meditation?"
_Verger._ "Ay, that they do, odd times. Why, I catched some of 'em at it
only last Toosday!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old Lady._ "Well, if that's David, what a size Goliath
must a' been."]
* * * * *