_Appetite--Steward--Wandering--The
Cigar--Umbrella--Suspicions--Judicial--Interrogation--Evidence--Stowaway
--Verdict--Off--Surmise--Lunch--Afloat--Night--Morning--Away--Landing._
[Illustration]
Suddenly aware of commencement of what promises to be uncommonly fine
and large appetite when it reaches maturity. _Happy Thought._--Find
steward. _Still Happier Thought._--Finding steward, not for the
purpose usually associated with calling for that official on a rough
day between Dover and Calais. On present occasion only to ask him,
when found, the hour of lunch. Somehow he eludes my search. After
wandering about vaguely into several other persons' cabins, I find
myself suddenly on a narrow lower deck. Don't know its technical name.
And now "a strange thing happens." Before me, leaning against a rail,
is the portly, or rather sea-portly, jovial-looking individual, whose
acquaintance I have already made in captain's cabin, thoughtfully
finishing a cigar. By the way, at any period of our too-brief
acquaintance I never see him without cigar, which he is always just
finishing, but never commencing. At this moment his cheery countenance
wears as hard an expression, quite unnatural to it, as it could by
any possibility assume for more than three minutes at a stretch, He
is addressing a flabby, cadaverous-looking individual in seedy black
trousers and coat, one button of which conceals the upper part of a
waistcoat made of some "washing material," and apparently as greatly
in need of the cleansing process as is its wearer. In one ill-shaped,
dirty hand he holds a very superior class of umbrella, with a gold tip
to it. I at once jump to the conclusion that its present possessor,
having come by it dishonestly, has been taken dirty-red handed, and
that my stout acquaintance is a sort of nautical magistrate, authorised
to try such cases by a sort of informal court-martial on board, and
empowered to order the culprit, if found guilty, to be put in irons, or
to be mast-headed, or otherwise dealt with according to maritime law.
Standing in the gangway I become an interested spectator of the trial.
The evidently guilty party, pale as a suet dumpling, and trembling like
a jelly (remarkable culinary combination), is awaiting his sentence.
"Why didn't you go on board the tender with every one else?" asks
my Judicial and Nautical Assessor (I fancy this is the terra in the
Admiralty Court, where, if on shore, he would probably sit attired
in full naval uniform, with a judge's wig on, and a cocked hat a-top
of that). The man mutters something about "didn't hear." "Not hear!"
ejaculates the Assessor, taking a short pull at his cigar and smiling
incredulously, "not hear! when everyone was shouting and rushing
all over the ship!" Personally I can bear witness to these facts;
but, not being called as evidence for the Crown and Anchor, I remain
silent. Why even down in the engine-rooms the stokers must have heard
the shouts for "TUBBS!" It occurs to me suddenly that this
wretched man must have stolen TUBBS' umbrella. But I am at
once enlightened as to the real state of the case. "Look here, my man,"
says the Judicial and Nautical Assessor, as he critically eyes the ash
of his cigar before flicking it off while speaking to the prisoner,
"you said you came on board to see your friends off; you gave their
name as TOMPKINS. Well, there isn't such a name on the books."
This statement seems to come as a "facer" to the cadaverous man, who,
becoming more cadaverous than ever, eyes the deck-rails askance, as if
contemplating a sudden rush and a jump into the water.
"Now, my man," continues the Assessor, with pleasant severity, "you say
you've got friends at Plymouth,"--the man is understood to assent to
this proposition in a despairing sort of way--"and you say they'll pay
for you there." The slightest indication of a cunning smile momentarily
illumines the Job Trotter-like countenance of the prisoner. "Well, we
don't do business on those terms. You give the steward three guineas,
and we'll take you to Plymouth. But if you can't pay--off you go. Here,
steward, you're wanted." And that officer coming up, the miserable
individual with the valuable umbrella (about which no questions have
been asked) is given into his charge by my stout acquaintance, who, as
we enter the smoking-room, says to me in an undertone, "He's a regular
'do.' We've hailed a boat, and he'll be put off in two two's. He wanted
to get his passage free. He's a 'stowaway,' that's what _he_ is."
A stowaway! Up to this moment of cruel disenchantment, my sympathies
have always been with the "stowaway." I imagined him as a poor,
ill-used kind of _Smike_ or _Oliver Twist_, hiding himself away
among the casks in the lowest hold of the vessel, only issuing forth
in the dead of night with the rats and cockroaches, who, suddenly
coming to the upper deck in a terrific storm, steers the ship into
a peaceful haven, saves the captain from a watery grave, and who,
finally, either marries the low high admiral's daughter, or (which
is more affecting) the poor stowaway mutters something about "Home,"
and, gratefully smiling, as he looks up at the now utterly overcome
captain, dies, in the lime-light, to slow music, with his head reposing
on that deeply affected officer's best epaulette. In fact, a sort of
nautical "Poor _Jo_." But this idea is utterly knocked over by the
appearance of the real genuine stowaway, who has such a sneaky, crawly,
strangling-you-asleep appearance, that I own to a feeling of intense
gratification on seeing two men rowing a small boat up alongside (for
which we slack off a bit), while at the same moment the discomfited
sneak with the expensive, and still mysterious, umbrella, who has
descended the lowered gangway, stands on the shaky ledge below as if he
were about to take a plunge--which, indeed, he does; not, fortunately
for him, into the tidal river, but head foremost into the dingy, where
for a second or two he lies sprawling. Regaining his legs, he steadies
himself, and actually has the impudence to wave his hat to us by way
of bidding us farewell, and hoping we'll have a good passage! "And,"
I ask of a sharp-looking little officer, who is superintending the
hauling up of the ladder, "what will become of him? Can he pay those
boatmen?" "Heaven knows!" is the answer, and we drop the subject as we
have already dropped the miserable object. At the last he will have to
give up that umbrella, worth quite a guinea, in payment for being taken
ashore. And then--... alas! poor _Job Trotter_ the Stowaway! I'm afraid
a good seven years is in store for him on some count or other; and, may
be, that's about the best that can happen to him.
The bugle-call. Bugle sounded by mysterious person in plain clothes,
who, like myself, "comes out for a blow." After this he is "heard no
more," until, at six P.M., he sends out his notes "_de faire
part_," _i.e._, to inform the company that it is time to dress for
dinner. At 6.30 he gives a good hearty blow out, cheerily announcing
the last meal of the day. Then he vanishes till next morning at
breakfast-time.
_One o'clock._--Such a prodigal luncheon as is provided only on board
ship. Most appropriate name, "Liners." At meal times we are all
"liners," and very plentifully do we line. Only on board one hour, and
my appetite is _Dominie Sampsonish_, _i.e._, "prodi-gi-ous!"
After lunch--with the essential Oriental curry--the necessary cigar
and coffee-cum-liqueur; we talk as we pace the deck up and down and
round and round, occasionally stopping to remark on the coast scenery,
and to puzzle out the exact localities of the best known places from
Whitstable to Dover.
So passes a fine and most enjoyable afternoon; then more bugle, capital
dinner, band playing, lively conversation, cigars and coffee, more
pacing deck, storytelling, game of cards, music, piping (no dancing),
grogging, and so to bed at an earlyish hour, to sleep soundly,
undisturbed even by solos on the fog-horn which, I am subsequently
informed, were of frequent occurrence, until the polite Commander
of the Bath knocks at cabin door to inform me that it is seven
A.M., and that the warm sea bath awaits me.
[Illustration]
_L'appétit vient en baignant_, and while walking the deck we gratefully
welcome the bugler who bugles us to breakfast. We rush down. False
alarm! It is only the politeness of the bugler, who beforehand, so
that no one shall be taken by surprise, gives us the note of warning,
letting us know thereby that, in half-an-hour, breakfast will be, so to
speak, "under weigh!" Fair start for all.
_Nine A.M._--Lions feeding not in it with us sea-dogs. What a
breakfast! as if we were not going to be within reach of food for the
next fortnight. We are all taking in stores hand over hand.
Alas! when next the bugle sounds for lunch we shall not be there! For,
as the clock strikes one, a tender from Plymouth arrives to fetch us,
and in a pelting shower we leave the good ship _Orotava_, taking with
us our chief cheery companion; and after bidding adieu to the other
cheery companions on board, we (a small party of three) take train
from Plymouth, S. Devon, to Ilfracombe, N. Devon, traversing as pretty
a line of country as is to be found in England. And so we begin our
holiday, and advise everyone to do likewise and enjoy the trip as much
as we did, and a holiday as much as we intend to do.
* * * * *
Rhyme by a Rad.
CHAMBERLAIN thinks the old, old Tory mind,
Has changed in love of privilege, power, pelf:
Say what JOE will, _our_ eyes he cannot blind;
_We_ know that his Tory repeats itself!
* * * * *
[Illustration: COMING TO A FULL STOP.
_Driver of bolting tandem_ (_to Rector, who has accepted a lift across
the park_). "ALL RIGHT, MR. PORTLEY--DON'T BE FRIGHTENED! THE SUNK
FENCE IS SURE TO STOP 'EM!"]
* * * * *