_In Bed; At the Highland Hotel, Oban._
What an extraordinary thing is the mechanism of the human mind! Went to
sleep last night impressed with vital importance of waking at six, to
catch early steamer to Gairloch. And here I am--broad awake--at exactly
5.55! Is it automatic action, or what? Like setting clockwork for
explosive machine. When the time comes, I blow up--I mean, _get_ up.
Think out this simile--rather a good one.... Need not have been so
particular in telling Boots to call me, after all. Shall I get up
_before_ he comes? He'll be rather surprised when he knocks at the door,
and hears me singing inside like a lark. But, on reflection, isn't it
rather _petty_ to wish to astonish an hotel Boots? And why on earth
should I get up myself, when I've tipped another fellow to get me up?
But suppose he forgets to call me. I've no right, as yet, to _assume_
that he will. To get up now would argue want of confidence in
him--might hurt his feelings. I will give him another five minutes, poor
fellow....
_Getting up._--No actual necessity to get up yet, but, to make assurance
doubly--something or other, forget what--I will ... I do. Portmanteau
rather refractory; retreats under bed--quite ten minutes before I can
coax it out.... When I have, it won't let me pack it. That's the worst
of this breed of brown portmanteaus--they're always nasty-tempered.
However, I am getting a few things into it now, by degrees. Very
annoying--as fast as I put them in, this confounded portmanteau shoots
them out again! If I've put in that pair of red and white striped
pyjamas once, I've done it twenty times--and they always come twisting
and rolling out of the back, somehow. Fortunate I left myself ample
time.
Man next door to me is running it rather fine. _He_ has to catch the
boat, too, and he's not up yet! Hear the Boots hammering away at his
door. How _can_ a fellow, just for the sake of a few more minutes in
bed--which he won't even know he's _had_!--go and risk losing his
steamer in that way? I'll do him a good turn--knock at the wall myself.
"Hi! get up, you lazy beggar. Look sharp--you'll be late!" He thanks
me, in a muffled tone, through the wall. He is a remarkably quick
dresser, he tells me--it won't take him thirty-five seconds to pack,
dress, pay his bill, and get on board. If that's the case, I don't see
why _I_ should hurry. I've got much more than that _already_.
_At the Quay._--People in Oban stare a good deal. Can't quite make out
reason, unless they're surprised to find me up so early. Explain that I
got up without having even been called. Oban populace mildly surprised,
and offer me neckties--_Why?_
Fine steamer this; has a paddle-wheel at _both_ ends--"because," the
Captain explains, "she has not only to _go_ to Gairloch--but come back
as well."
First-rate navigator, the Captain; he has written my weight, the date of
my last birthday, and the number of the house I live in, down in a sort
of ledger he keeps. He does this with all his passengers, he tells me,
reduces the figures to logarithms, and works out the ship's course in
decimals. No idea there was so much science in modern seamanship.
_On Board._--Great advantage of being so early is that you can breakfast
quietly on deck before starting. Have mine on bridge of steamer, under
awning; everything very good--ham-meringues _excellent_. No coffee,
but, instead, a capital brand of dry, sparkling marmalade, served,
sailor-fashion, in small pomatum-pots.
What a small world we live in! Of all people in the world, who should be
sitting next to me but my Aunt Maria! I was always under the impression
that she had died in my infancy. Don't like to mention this, because if
I am _wrong_, she might be offended. But if she _did_ die when I was a
child, she ought to be a much older woman than she looks. I _do_ tell
her this--because it is really a compliment.
My Aunt, evidently an experienced traveller, never travels, she informs
me, without a pair of globes and a lawn-mower. She offers, very kindly,
to lend me the Celestial globe, if the weather is at all windy. This is
behaving _like_ an Aunt!
We are taking in live-stock; curious-looking creatures, like spotted
pug-dogs (only bigger and woollier, of course) and without horns.
Somebody leaning over the rail next to me (I _think_ he is the Public
Prosecutor, but am not quite sure), tells me they are "Scotch
Shortbreads." Agreeable man, but rather given to staring.
Didn't observe it before, but my Aunt is really amazingly like Mr.
Gladstone. Ask her to explain this. She is much distressed that I have
noticed it; says she has felt it coming on for some time; it is not, as
she justly complains, as if she took any interest in politics either.
She has consulted every doctor in London, and they all tell her it is
simply weakness, and she will outgrow it with care. Singular case--must
find out (delicately) whether it's catching.
We ought to be starting soon; feel quite fresh and lively, in spite of
having got up so early. Mention this to Captain. Wish he and the Public
Prosecutor wouldn't stare at me so. Just as if there was something
singular in my appearance!
They're embarking my portmanteau now. Knew they would have a lively time
of it! It takes at least four sailors, in kilts, to manage it. Ought I
to step ashore and quiet it down? Stay where I am. Don't know why, but
feel a little afraid of it when it's like this. Shall exchange it for a
quiet hand-bag when I get home.
Captain busy hammering at a hole in the funnel--dangerous place to
spring a leak in--hope he is making it water-tight. The hammering
reminds me of that poor devil in the bedroom next to mine at the hotel.
_He_ won't catch the boat now--he _can't_! My Aunt (who has left off
looking like Mr. Gladstone) asks me why I am laughing. I tell her about
that unfortunate man and his "thirty-five seconds." She screams with
laughter. Very humorous woman, my Aunt.
Deck crowded with passengers now: all pointing and staring ... at whom?
Ask Aunt Maria. She declines to tell me: says, severely, that "If I
don't know, I ought to."
Great Heavens! It's at _me_ they're staring! And no wonder--in the hurry
I was in, I must have packed _everything_ up!... I've come away just as
I was! _Now_ I understand why someone offered me a necktie. Where shall
I go and hide myself? Shall I ever persuade that beast of a portmanteau
to give me out one or two things to put on--because I really _can't_ go
about like this! Captain still hammering at funnel--but he can't wake
that sleepy-headed idiot in the next room. "Louder--knock _louder_, or
the boat will go without him! Tell him there isn't another for two days.
He's said good-bye to everybody he knows at Oban--he will look such an
ass if he doesn't go, after all!"... Not the least use! Wonder what his
name is. My Aunt says _she_ knows, only she won't tell me--she'll
whisper it, as a great secret. She is just about to disclose the name,
which, somehow, I am extremely curious to know--when ...
Where am I? Haven't they got that unhappy fellow up _yet_? Why the
dickens are they knocking at _my_ door? I've been on board the steamer
for hours, I tell you? Eh? _what?_ Five minutes to eight! And the
Gairloch boat? "Sailed at usual time--seven. Tried to make you hear--but
couldn't."... Confound it all! Good mind not to get up all day--now!
[Illustration]