I used to watch the happy passengers bound for France, some of them, in
their holiday spirits, already fraternizing together on the sunny deck,
and fussing with camp-stools and magazines and novels and bottles
of bitter beer, or retiring before the funnel to smoke the pipe of
peace.
[Illustration: THE BOULOGNE STEAMER.]
The sound of the boiler getting up steam--what delicious music it was!
Would it ever get up steam for me? The very smell of the cabin, the very
feel of the brass gangway and the brass-bound, oil-clothed steps were
delightful; and down-stairs, on the snowy cloth, were the cold beef and
ham, the beautiful fresh mustard, the bottles of pale ale and stout. Oh,
happy travellers, who could afford all this, and France into
the bargain!
Soon would a large white awning make the after-deck a paradise, from
which, by-and-by, to watch the quickly gliding panorama of the Thames.
The bell would sound for non-passengers like me to go ashore--"Que
diable allait-il faire dans cette galere!" as Uncle Ibbetson would have
said. The steamer, disengaging itself from the wharf with a pleasant
yoho-ing of manly throats and a slow, intermittent plashing of the
paddle-wheels, would carefully pick its sunny, eastward way among the
small craft of the river, while a few handkerchiefs were waved in a
friendly, make-believe farewell--_auf wiedersehen_!
Oh, to stand by that unseasonably sou'-westered man at the wheel, and
watch St.
Pages:
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117