The name of the ship which we had chartered was "The Pilgrim Father." This, together with the cargo of eighty-seven aged optimists, gazing pensively over the vessel's side as it steamed out of Plymouth Sound, must have made the watching townspeople imagine that we were in the moving picture trade. They may even have thought that, presently, we should commence some sort of "stunt."
We managed, however, to get nearly half-a-dozen miles away from land before anything exciting happened.
The trouble commenced in bunk 64, which was occupied by an ancient and retired stockbroker, known as William Garton.
On boarding the vessel he had immediately gone below, suffering from the quaint delusion that the best preventive of sea-sickness was to commence a voyage deep in slumber. In this way, he argued, one became unconsciously acclimatized to the motion, and when one at last awoke the danger was passed.
It certainly wasn't in this particular case; for he awoke with a start (possibly from the throes of some evil nightmare), sprang out of his bunk and came tearing up on deck, clad only in pajamas and nightcap.
"Stop the ship!" he cried wildly. "Stop it at once!"
Fortunately, Gran'pa was near and was able to deal with the matter before a panic ensued.
"What's happened now?" he asked, with a murderous look in his eyes.
"I've changed my mind! I want to go back!"
"Don't be absurd!"