That day I liked my little saffron-coloured captain much better. He played the host very agreeably. He made as many inquiries as he dared, without too much displaying his own ignorance, as to the extent of my acquirements; and, when he found them so far beyond his expectations, he seemed to be struck with a sudden respect for me. The tone of his conversation was more decorous than that of the preceding evening; he gave me a great deal of nautical advice, recommended me to the protection particularly of the first and second lieutenants, who were also his guests, approved of my plan of sleeping at the tailor’s, and dismissed me very early, no doubt with a feeling of pleasure at having removed a restraint; for, as I left the room, I just caught the words—“Make a damned sea-lawyer, by-and-by.”
Chapter Thirty.
Jealousy cooled by a watering—Ralph exhorteth, and right wisely—The boatswain sees many things in a new light—And, though he causeth crabs to be caught, he bringeth them to a wrong market.
Pridhomme had been lying in wait for me, and picked me up as I left the hotel. We went to the theatre, a wretched affair certainly, the absurdities of which I should have much enjoyed, had I not been bored to death by the eternal Jemima. That lady was like Jemima and that was not. Was the person in the blue silk dress as tall as Jemima; or the other in the white muslin quite as stout? Jemima was all he could talk about, till at length, I was so horribly Jemimaed that I almost audibly wished Jemima jammed down his throat; but as everything must have an end, even when a midshipman talks about Jemima, we, at length, got to the tailor’s door, which was opened by the lovely Jemima in propriâ personâ. Not a step beyond the step of the door was the lover admitted, whilst the poor wretch was fain to feast on the ecstasies of remembering that he was permitted to grasp the tip of her forefinger whilst he sighed forth his fond good-night.
In a few days, the Eos, being perfectly equipped, dropped down to Sheerness, and I, for the first time, slept under the roof provided for me by his Britannic Majesty. That is to say, I was coffined and shrouded in a longitudinal canvas bag, hung up to the orlop deck by two cleats, one at each end, in a very graceful curve, very useful in forming that elegant bend in the back so much coveted by the exhibitors in Regent Street.
I had taken a rather sentimental leave of Jemima, who had somehow or another persuaded me to exchange love-tokens with her. That which I gave her was a tolerably handsome writing-desk, which I could not help buying for her, as she had taken a great fancy to it; indeed, she told me it had annoyed her for some months, because it stood so provokingly tempting in the shop-window just over the way; and besides, “She should be so—so happy to write me such pretty letters from it.” The last argument was convincing, and the desk was bought; in return for which she presented me with a very old silver pencil-case—its age, indeed, she gave me to understand, ought to be its greatest value in my eyes—she had had it so long: it was given to her by her defunct mother. So I promised to keep it as long as I lived. Really, there was no chance of my ever wearing it out by use, for it was certainly quite useless; but love dignifies things so much! After having split it up by shoving a piece of black-lead pencil into it, I put it into my waistcoat pocket, saying to the heiress of the Chatham tailor—
“Rich gifts prove poor when givers prove unkind.”
“Ah, Ralph!” said the giver of rich gifts, “I shall never prove unkind.” So we parted; and as I walked down the street, she waved her hand, which would have been really white, had she not scored her forefinger in a most villainous manner by her awkward method of using her needle, when her father was short of hands.