“Noble et tendre amitie, je te chante en mes vers.”
“Murder!” cried Coristine, “Do you know that that Miss Jewplesshy, or Do Please, or whatever her name is, is French?”
“O, Corry, Corry, how could you break in upon a scene of purest friendship and nature worship like this with your wretched misses? O, Corry, be a man!”
“The anchor’s agoin’ out,” remarked The Crew, as he passed by; so the travellers rushed to the capstan and got hold of the spikes. Out went the cable, as Coristine sang:—
Do! my Johnny Boker,
I’m a poo-er sailor,
Do! my Johnny Boker,
The ship made fast, the captain said, “Sylvanus will take you gentlemen ashore in the dingy. It only holds three, so I’ll wait till he comes back.” The pedestrians protested, but in vain. Sylvanus should take them ashore first. So they bade the captain good-bye with many thanks and good wishes, and tumbled down into the dingy, which The Crew brought round. The captain shouted from the bulwarks in an insinuating way, “I’ll keep my eye on you, Mr Wilkinson, trying to steal an old man’s niece away from him,” at which the victim shuddered. Away went the dingy some fifty yards or more, when Coristine called out, “Have you got the knapsacks, Farquhar, my dear?”
“Why, bless me, no,” he answered. “I thought you had them.” “Row back for your life, Sylvanus, to get the blessed knapsacks;” and Sylvanus, patient creature, did as he was told. The captain threw them over the side with another farewell speech, and then the dingy made for the bank, while Coristine sang in a rich voice:—
Pull for the shore,
Pull for the shore.
They landed, and, much against The Crew’s will, he was compelled to receive a dollar from each of his passengers.
“I’ll see you again,” he said, as he rowed back for the captain. “I’ll see you again up in Grey, along of the old man and the gals, mark my word if I don’t.”
“Glad to see you, Sylvy, old fresh (he was going to say ‘old salt,’ but corrected himself in time), glad to see you anywhere,” bawled the lawyer, “but we’ve made a vow to dispense with female society in our travels. Ta, ta!”
of Kin—Nightmare—On the Road—Strawberries
Botany—Poetry and Sentiment—The Virago—Luncheon and
Wordsworth—Waterplants, Leeches and Verse—Cutting Sticks—Rain,
Muggins and Rawdon.
The travellers carried their knapsacks in their hands by the straps, to the nearest hotel, where, after brief delay, a special supper was set for them. Having discussed the frugal meal, they repaired to the combined reading and smoking room, separate from the roughish crowd at the bar. Wilkinson glanced over a Toronto paper, while his companion, professing an interest in local news, picked up an organ of the town and read it through, advertisements and all, in which painstaking effort he was helped by his pipe. Suddenly he grasped the paper, and, holding it away from his face, exclaimed, “Is it possible that they are the same?”