Sketches by Seymour Part 30

CHAPTER X.--The Pic-Nic.

--had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow.

"People should never undertake to do a thing they don't perfectly understand," remarked Mr. Crobble, "they're sure to make fools o'

themselves in the end. There's Tom Davis, (you know Tom Davis?) he's always putting his notions into people's heads, and turning the laugh against 'em. If there's a ditch in the way, he's sure to dare some of his companions to leap it, before he overs it himself; if he finds it safe, away he springs like a greyhound."

"Exactly him, I know him," replied Mr. Timmis; "that's what he calls learning to shave upon other people's chins!"

"Excellent!" exclaimed Mr. Wallis.

"He's a very devil," continued Mr. Crobble; "always proposing some fun or other: Pic-nics are his delight; but he always leaves others to bring the grub, and brings nothing but himself. I hate Pic-nics, squatting in the gra.s.s don't suit me at all; when once down, I find it no easy matter to get up again, I can tell you."

Hereupon there was a general laugh.

"Talking of Pic-nics," said Mr. Timmis, "reminds me of one that was held the other day in a meadow, on the banks of the Lea. The party, consisting of ladies only, and a little boy, had just spread out their prog on a clean table-cloth, when they were alarmed by the approach of a cow. They were presently on their pins, (cow'd, of course,) and sheered off to a respectful distance, while the cow walked leisurely over the table-cloth, smelling the materials of the feast, and popp'd her cloven foot plump into a currant and raspberry pie! and they had a precious deal of trouble to draw her off; for, as Tom Davis said, there were some veal-patties there, which were, no doubt, made out of one of her calves; and in her maternal solicitude, she completely demolished the plates and dishes, leaving the affrighted party nothing more than the broken victuals."

"What a lark!" exclaimed Mr. Crobble; "I would have given a guinea to have witnessed the fun. That cow was a trojan!"

"A star in the milky way," cried Mr. Wallis.

We now approached the 'Plough;' and Mr. Crobble having 'satisfied' the boatman, Mr. Wallis gave me half-a-crown, and bade me make the best of my way home. I pocketed the money, and resolved to 'go on the highway,' and trudge on foot.

"Andrew," said my worthy patron, "now don't go and make a beast of yourself, but walk straight home."

"Andrew," said Mr. Wallis, imitating his friend's tone of admonition; "if any body asks you to treat 'em, bolt; if any body offers to treat you, retreat!"

"Andrew," said Mr. Crobble, who was determined to put in his oar, and row in the same boat as his friends; "Andrew,"--"Yes, Sir;" and I touched my hat with due respect, while his two friends bent forward to catch his words. "Andrew," repeated he, for the third time, "avoid evil communication, and get thee gone from Blackwall, as fast as your legs can carry you--for, there's villainous bad company just landed here--wicked enough to spoil even the immaculate Mr. Cornelius Crobble!"

CHAPTER XI.--The Journey Home.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!"--"Aye, aye-starboard it is!"

I found myself quite in a strange land upon parting with my master and his friends. It was war-time, and the place was literally swarming with jack-tars.

Taking to the road, for the footway was quite crowded, I soon reached Poplar. Here a large mob impeded my progress. They appeared all moved with extraordinary merriment. I soon distinguished the objects of their mirth. Two sailors, mounted back to back on a cart-horse, were steering for Blackwall. A large horse-cloth served them as a subst.i.tute for a saddle, and the merry fellow behind held the reins; he was smoking a short pipe, while his mate was making an observation with his spy-gla.s.s.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!" cried the one in front.

"Aye, aye-starboard it is!" replied his companion, tugging at the rein.

"Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?" bawled a sailor in the crowd.

"To the port o' Blackwall," replied the steersman. "But we're going quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night."

"A queer craft."

"Werry," replied Tom. "Don't answer the helm at all."

"Any grog on board?" demanded the sailor.

"Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage."

"s.h.i.+ver my timbers!--no grog!" exclaimed the other; "why--you'll founder.

If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour.

Heave to--and let's drink success to the voyage."

"With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom--larboard."

"Aye, aye--larboard it is."

"Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl."

Tom tugged away, and soon "brought up" at the door of a wine-vaults.

"Let go the anchor," exclaimed his messmate--"that's it--coil up."

"Here, mate--here's a picter of his royal majesty"--giving the sailor alongside a new guinea--"and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health--G.o.d bless him."

"Hooray!" shouted the delighted mob.

Their quondam friend soon did his bidding, bringing out a huge china-bowl filled with grog, which was handed round to every soul within reach, and presently dispatched;--two others followed, before they "weighed anchor and proceeded on their voyage," cheered by the ragged mult.i.tude, among whom they lavishly scattered their change; and a most riotous and ridiculous scramble it produced.

I was much pleased with the novelty of the scene, and escaped from the crowd as quickly as I conveniently could, for I was rather apprehensive of an attempt upon my pockets.

What strange beings are these sailors! They have no care for the morrow, but spend lavishly the hard-earned wages of their adventurous life. To one like myself, who early knew the value of money, this thoughtless extravagance certainly appeared unaccountable, and nearly allied to madness; but, when I reflected that they are sometimes imprisoned in a s.h.i.+p for years, without touching land, and frequently in peril of losing their lives--that they have scarcely time to scatter their wages and prize-money in the short intervals which chance offers them of mixing with their fellow-men, my wonder changed to pity.

"A man in a s.h.i.+p," says Dr. Johnson, "is worse than a man in a jail; for the latter has more room, better food, and commonly better company, and is in safety."

CHAPTER XII.--Monsieur Dubois.

"I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!--but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!"

The love-lorn Matthew had departed, no doubt unable to bear the sight of that staircase whose boards no longer resounded with the slip-slap of the slippers of that hypocritical beauty, "his Mary." With him, the romance of the landing-place, and the squad, had evaporated; and I had no sympathies, no pursuits, in common with the remaining "boys"--my newly-acquired post, too, nearly occupied the whole of my time, while my desire of study increased with the acquisition of books, in which all my pocket-money was expended.

One day, my good friend, Mr. Wallis, entered the office, followed by a short, sharp-visaged man, with a sallow complexion; he was dressed in a shabby frock, b.u.t.toned up to the throat--a rusty black silk neckerchief supplying the place of s.h.i.+rt and collar.