Lo, the two red eyes glaring in increasing distance, and
then the very train itself has gone to bed before we are off! What is
the moral support derived by some sea-going amateurs from an umbrella?
Why do certain voyagers across the Channel always put up that article,
and hold it up with a grim and fierce tenacity? A fellow-creature near
me--whom I only know to be a fellow-creature because of his umbrella:
without which he might be a dark bit of cliff, pier, or
bulkhead--clutches that instrument with a desperate grasp that will not
relax until he lands at Calais. Is there an analogy, in certain
constitutions, between keeping an umbrella up and keeping the spirits
up? A hawser thrown on board with a flop replies, "Stand by!" "Stand by,
below!" "Half a turn ahead!" "Half a turn ahead!" "Half speed!" "Half
speed!" "Port!" "Port!" "Steady!" "Steady!" "Go on!" "Go on!"
A stout wooden wedge driven in at my right temple and out at my left, a
floating deposit of lukewarm oil in my throat, and a compression of the
bridge of my nose in a blunt pair of pincers--these are the personal
sensations by which I know we are off, and by which I shall continue to
know it until I am on the soil of France. My symptoms have scarcely
established themselves comfortably, when two or three skating shadows
that have been trying to walk or stand, get flung together, and other
two or three shadows in tarpaulin slide with them into corners and cover
them up.
Pages:
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210