Part 9 (1/2)

[Ill.u.s.tration: A TRYING MOMENT

_Doris._ ”Oh, Jack, here come those Sellerby girls! Do show them how beautifully you can punt.”]

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HEIGHT OF IMPROPRIETY

_Miss Grundison, Junior._ ”There goes Lucy Holroyd, all alone in a boat with young Snipson, as usual! So imprudent of them!”

_Her Elder Sister._ ”Yes; how shocking if they were upset and drowned--without a chaperon, you know!”]

[Ill.u.s.tration: LOCAL OPTION

_Captain of Clyde steamer_ (_to stoker, as they sighted their port_).

”Slack awee, Donal', slack awee”--(_he was interested in the liquors sold_)--”they're drencken haurd yenoo!!”]

'ARRY ON A 'OUSE-BOAT

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Dear Charlie,--It's 'ot, and no error!

Summer on us, at last, with a bust; Ninety odd in the shade as I write, I've a 'ed, and a thunderin'

thust.

Can't go on the trot at this tempryture, though I'm on 'oliday still; So I'll pull out my _eskrytor_, Charlie, and give you a touch of my quill.

If you find as my fist runs to size, set it down to that quill, dear old pal; Correspondents is on to me lately, complains as I write like a gal.

Sixteen words to the page, and slopscrawly, all dashes and blobs.

Well, it's true; But a quill and big sprawl is the fas.h.i.+on, so wot is a feller to do?

Didn't spot you at 'Enley, old oyster--I did 'ope you'd shove in your oar.

We 'ad a rare barney, I tell you, although a bit spiled by the pour.

'Ad a invite to 'Opkins's 'ouse-boat, prime pitch, and swell party, yer know, Pooty girls, first-cla.s.s lotion, and music. I tell yer we did let things go.

Who sez 'Enley ain't up to old form, that Society gives it the slip?

Wish you could 'ave seen us--and heard us--old boy, when aboard of our s.h.i.+p.

Peonies and poppies ain't in it for colour with our little lot, And with larfter and banjos permiskus we managed to mix it up 'ot.

My blazer was claret and mustard, my ”stror” was a rainbow gone wrong!

I ain't one who's ashamed of his colours, but likes 'em mixed midd-lingish strong.

'Emmy 'Opkins, the fluffy-'aired daughter, a dab at a punt or canoe, Said I looked like a garden of dahlias, and showed up her neat navy blue.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Fair mashed on yours truly, Miss Emmy; but that's only jest by the way, 'Arry ain't one to brag of _bong jour tunes_; but wot I wos wanting to say Is about this here ”spiling the River” which snarlers set down to our sort.

Bos.h.!.+ Charlie, extreme Tommy rot! It's these sniffers as want to spile sport.

Want things all to theirselves, these old jossers, and all on the strictest Q. T.