Likewise I Feel That
I Owe The Tribute Of A Line To The Elderly Britain Who Was Engaged
In A
Constant and highly successful demonstration of the fallacy
of the claim set up by medical practitioners, to the effect that
The human stomach can contain but one fluid pint at a time. All
day long, with his monocle goggling glassily from the midst of his
face, like one lone porthole in a tank steamer, he disproved this
statement by practical methods and promptly at nine every evening,
when his complexion had acquired a rich magenta tint, he would be
carried below by two accommodating stewards and put - no, not put,
decanted - would be decanted gently into bed. If anything had
happened to the port-light of that ship, we could have stationed
him forward in the bows with his face looming over the rail and
been well within the maritime regulations - his face had a brilliancy
which even the darkness of the night could not dim; and if the
other light had gone out of commission, we could have impressed
the aid of the bilious Armenian lady who was sick every minute
and very sick for some minutes, for she was always of a glassy
green color.
We learned to wait regularly for the ceremony of seeing Sir Monocle
and his load toted off to bed at nine o'clock every night, just
as we learned to linger in the offing and watch the nimble knife-work
when the prize invalid of the ship's roster had cornered a fresh
victim. The prize invalid, it is hardly worth while to state, was
of the opposite sex. So many things ailed her - by her own confession
- that you wondered how they all found room on the premises at the
same time. Her favorite evening employment was to engage another
woman in conversation - preferably another invalid - and by honeyed
words and congenial confidences, to lead the unsuspecting prey on
and on, until she had her trapped, and then to turn on her suddenly
and ridicule the other woman's puny symptoms and tell her she didn't
even know the rudiments of being ill and snap her up sharply when
she tried to answer back. And then she would deliver a final sting
and go away without waiting to bury her dead. The poison was in
the postscript - it nearly always is with that type of female. But
afterward she would justify herself by saying people must excuse
her manner - she didn't mean anything by it; it was just her way,
and they must remember that she suffered constantly. Some day
when I have time, I shall make that lady the topic of a popular
song. I have already fabricated the refrain: Her heart was in the
right place, lads, but she had a floating kidney!
Arrives a day when you develop a growing distaste for the company
of your kind, or in fact, any kind. 'Tis a day when the sea, grown
frisky, kicks up its nimble heels and tosses its frothy mane.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 174 of 179
Words from 90462 to 90969
of 93169
