“When you're going away by boat,” said Mitchell, “you ought to say
good-bye to the women at home, and to the chaps at the last pub. I hate
waiting on the wharf or up on deck when the boat's behind time. There's
no sense in it, and a lot of unnecessary misery. Your friends wait on
the wharf and you are kept at the rail to the bitter end, just when they
and you most want a spell. And why? Some of them hang out because they
love you, and want to see the last of you; some because they don't like
you to see them going away without seeing the last of you; and you hang
out mostly because it would hurt 'em if you went below and didn't give
them a chance of seeing the last of you all the time--and you curse the
boat and wish to God it would start. And those who love you most--the
women-folk of the family--and who are making all the fuss and breaking
their hearts about having to see the last of you, and least want to do
it--they hang out the longest, and are the most determined to see it.
Where's the sense in it? What's the good of seeing the last of you? How
do women manage to get consolation out of a thing like that?
“But women get consolation out of queer things sometimes,” he added
reflectively, “and so do men.
“I remember when I was knocking about the coasts, an old aunt of mine
always persisted in coming down to see the last of me, and bringing the
whole family too--no matter if I was only going away for a month. I was
her favourite. I always turned up again in a few months; but if I'd come
back every next boat it wouldn't have made the slightest difference to
her. She'd say that I mightn't come back some day, and then she'd never
forgive herself nor the family for not seeing me off. I suppose she'll
see the end of me yet if she lives long enough--and she's a wiry old
lady of the old school. She was old-fashioned and dressed like a fright,
they said at home. They hated being seen in public with her; to tell the
truth, I felt a bit ashamed, too, at times. I wouldn't be, now. When I'd
get her off on to the wharf I'd be overcome with my feelings, and have
to retire to the privacy of the bar to hide my emotions till the
boat was going. And she'd stand on the end of the pier and wave her
handkerchief and mop her old eyes with it until she was removed by
force.
“God bless her old heart! There wasn't so much affection wasted on me
at home that I felt crowded by hers; and I never lost anything by her
seeing the last of me.
“I do wish the Oracle would stop that confounded fiddle of his--it makes
you think over damned old things.”