_Projected Re-visitation_--_Ilfracombe_--_Torrs Walks_--_En
route_--_Start_--_In Dock_--_Out_--_Tender
Thoughts_--_On Board_--Reception--_Greetings_--_Exciting
Search_--_Parting_--_Off!_
_Happy Thought._--Revisit Ilfracombe. Hire highest possible house
at the lowest possible price close to celebrated "Torrs Walks."
Why called "Torrs Walks"? Probably original TORRS who discovered
Ilfracombe used to walk here; one stormy night TORRS lost his head and
legs; then fell from sheer height of several hundred feet into
boiling sea; boiling sea made it hot for the unhappy TORRS; TORRS only
walking, not swimming. Therefore end of TORRS. Family name perpetuated
in Walks. Years ago, price to ascend Torrs was one penny per head,
body included. Tariff gone up since then. To Torrs Torr-tuous Turnings
admission Twopence. Extra penny might have improved paths. Here there
is as much "winding up" as in bankruptcy. "_Excelsior_" is motto of
visitor; likewise of proprietor who put on the extra penny. No matter;
not another spot in England where pedestrian can get better air,
better exercise, and finer views, all for twopence!
_Friendly Advice--gratis._--Always carry waterproof. If practicable
get someone to carry it for you. Never know when you may want it,
or when you mayn't. Stop for five o'clock tea on Torrs top. Whistle
merrily "_Torr-eador contento_" as you descend, and you will be giving
one of the best airs in _Carmen_ in return for about the finest air in
Devonshire.
_How to get to Ilfracombe._--Per rail, London and South-Western.
Picturesque line of country. Another, and a longer _route_, per _mare
et terram_, and therefore more varied and health-refreshing, which are
important points to score if your holiday be circumscribed, is to take
passage on board steamer, Pacific Orient Line for choice, which stops
at Plymouth _en route_ to give a last glance at Old England before
proceeding across the Bay of Biscay to Naples, and, ultimately,
Australia. Only drawback to this is the start from Fenchurch Street.
Fenchurch Street Station enough to make anyone start. Wanted here
a spacious, light and airy place where passengers carrying "hand
properties" can move about rapidly without loss of that equanimity of
temper which every traveller should cultivate under circumstances that
would try even the joviality of that utterly impossible creation _Mark
Tapley_. Still _Mark Tapley_ is an ideal to be lived up to as near as
may be; and the passenger who, with bag in hand, while struggling
with mixed crowd in Fenchurch Street Station on the departure of any
important Tilbury Dock train, can be jovial or even ordinarily polite,
is already in a fair way towards earning the Ideal Tapley Medal.
Tilbury Wharf. "And at this wharf of Tilbury" why not more porters?
Why not a covering to the landing-stage, where at present, the
traveller, like the sky parlour in ancient song, "exposed to the wind
and the rain," will be thoroughly drenched while awaiting the advent
of the tender. _Happy Thought._--To-day, fortunately, fine.
These queries occur to me as I stand on this floating quay, and
witness in the distance the "tender parting." There will be many "a
tender parting" beside this one to be seen when the _Orotava_ gets her
steam up, and quits Tilbury for Melbourne.
We board the _Orotava_, which is to board and lodge so many of them
(with another contingent going overland, and joining the ship later
on) for the next month or so.
I am personally introduced to the captain by some kindly friends who
come to see me off, and whom, as I lose sight of them in the crowd,
it is soon my turn to "see off"; as subsequently I can only catch a
glimpse of them in the crowd, on the tender, as they depart for shore,
when we wave hands to one another implying thereby all sorts of good
wishes. After making the captain's acquaintance, I am introduced by
some light-hearted companion--everyone on board is either boisterously
gay or in the deepest grief--to a good-humoured-looking portly
gentleman, whom, there being nothing whatever nautical in his
appearance, I should have taken for a landed proprietor, "one of
the olden time," had I not very soon discovered him to be something
uncommonly superior in the Nautical Pacific Service, and _the_ friend
in need, without whom no passenger's happiness is complete, that
is, speaking from practical experience, if the destination of that
passenger is only Plymouth, as was mine.
_Farewell!_ The tender is about to depart. It seems to me to be
as full as when it arrived. "Cheers, tears and laughter:" only the
laughter is a bit forced, while the tears are natural, and the cheers
most hearty. The tender hesitates. Tug evidently tender-hearted; can't
bear to part with the good ship _Orotava_. No; this is not the cause
of the delay. Some one is waited for. Tender crew impatient. Where is
he? Who is he? Find him. Some one, in ordinary frock coat and top hat
but clearly an official on board tender, puts both hands to his
month and shouts out what sounds to me like "Wait for Mister TUBBS!"
Evidently tender cannot go ashore without TUBBS; equally evident
that TUBBS is not to sail with the _Orotava_. Puzzle, to find TUBBS.
Stewards, chief officers, mates, men rush in all directions to rout
out TUBBS. Look-out man aloft in sort of suspended clothes basket
cannot get a sight of TUBBS either in the offing or out of it. Nothing
like TUBBS to be seen anywhere. Somebody reports at top of voice "He's
with the captain." Captain up above somewhere, invisible, denies soft
impeachment as to being cognisant of the whereabouts of TUBBS. What
is TUBBS doing? Playing hide and seek? Search light turned on into
darkest and deepest depths of _Orotava_. No TUBBS. Suddenly first
gangway withdrawn, and grasp of tender partially relaxed. Exciting
moment. Crew of tender rattle second gangway threateningly: their
patience is almost exhausted. The cry goes up once more for TUBBS
ahoy! Even the weeping wives and sorrowing friends, lovers and
children forget their dear ones for a moment and strain their eyes in
every direction, gasping for a glimpse of invisible TUBBS. At last
a small, stoutish figure appears on the gangway. Is he hatless?
breathless? Not a bit of it. He walks the gangway as if he yet had
hours of leisure before him, and was quite unconscious of having kept
anyone waiting. It is TUBBS himself. The self-possession of TUBBS
is remarkable, nay admirable. He notices nobody. Speaks to nobody.
Suddenly he disappears; the gangway is withdrawn; more cheers, more
waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, and the tender, with the impassive
TUBBS to boot, drifts out of sight, and the _Orotava_ is fairly under
weigh.
* * * * *
[Illustration: WITHOUT PREJUDICE.
_Ugly Man_ (_who thinks he's a privileged wag, to Artist_). "NOW, MR.
_DAUB_IGNY, DRAW ME."
_Artist_ (_who doesn't like being called_ Daub_igny, and whose real
name is Smith_). "CERTAINLY. BUT YOU _WON'T_ BE OFFENDED IF IT'S
_LIKE_ YOU. EH?"]
* * * * *