“Well, you don’t want to swing a cat in them, do you?” inquired Rex gravely, firing off the venerable joke at his senior half unconsciously. “I think they are first-rate cabins, considering that they’re on board ship; you can’t expect to have such rooms here as you have at ‘The Blackthorns.’ Space is limited afloat, you know.”
“Eight you are, Mr Fortescue,” shouted Brook through the bulkhead, his cabin adjoining that of the partners, and conversation, unless pitched in a low tone, being quite audible from one to the other; “I call these cabins splendid; moreover than that, look how light and atmospheric they are; why, you wouldn’t find lighter or more luxuriant cabins in the Great Eastern herself.”
“I wish, Brook, you’d shut up and mind your own business,” snarled Mr Dale as in his irritation he wrenched off a drawer-knob; “you’re a good deal too ready with your opinions, and I’ll thank you to keep ’em to yourself until you’re asked for ’em for the future.”
Here Rex Fortescue interposed, pouring by his tact and good-humour oil upon the troubled waters, and bringing harmony out of discord once more; so that, by the time everything had been packed away in its proper place and the dinner-bell had rung out its welcome peal, peace reigned undisturbed in the handsome saloon of the Galatea.
Meanwhile, the passengers having all embarked, the ship at once proceeded down the river in tow, and when the occupants of the saloon rose from the dinner-table and went on deck to enjoy the beauty of the evening they found themselves off Sheerness, in the midst of a fleet of ships and steamers of all builds and all nationalities, some outward-bound like themselves, and others entering the river, either under steam, in tow, or under canvas, as the case might be. Here came a magnificent steamship, towering high out of the water, at the close of her voyage from India, with sallow-complexioned passengers scattered about her decks fore and aft, muffled up in thick overcoats, and pacing briskly to and fro to stimulate the circulation of the thin blood in their veins, and looking the picture of chilly misery, though the evening was almost oppressively warm. There, on the other side, moved sluggishly along under her old, patched, and coal-grimed canvas a collier brig, with bluff bows, long bowsprit, and short stumpy masts and yards, the counterpart of the Betsy Jane of glorious memory. Abreast of her, and sailing two feet to the collier’s one, was a river-barge, loaded down to her gunwale with long gaily painted spreet and tanned canvas which gleamed a rich ruddy brown in the rays of the setting sun. Here, again, came a swift excursion steamer, her decks crowded with jovial pleasure-seekers, and a good brass band on the bridge playing “A Life on the Ocean Wave,” whilst behind her again appeared a clumsy but picturesque-looking “billy-boy” or galliot from the Humber—the Saucy Sue of Goole—with a big brown dog on board, who, excited by the unwonted animation of the scene, rushed madly fore and aft the deck, rearing up on his hind-legs incessantly to look over the bulwarks and bark at all and sundry. Then came a large full-rigged ship in tow, her hull painted a dead-black down to the gleaming copper, the upper edge of which showed just above the water-line, with the high flaring bow, short counter, and lofty tapering spars, which needed not the “stars and stripes” fluttering far aloft to proclaim her an American. And behind her, again, came a great five-masted ironclad, gliding with slow and stately motion up the river on her way to Chatham.
“Oh, what a monster of a ship!” exclaimed little Blanche Lascelles as the ironclad approached near enough to the Galatea to enable those on board to realise her vast proportions.
“Yes,” said Brook, who was standing close by, evidently anxious for an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the ladies. “Yes, that’s the Black Prince; I know her well. Fine ship, ain’t she?”
“I think you are mistaken, sir, as to the name of that ironclad,” remarked Captain Staunton, who was on the poop within ear-shot. “The Black Prince has only three masts, and she has a raking stem, not a ram.”
“Oh, no; I’m not mistaken,” said the individual addressed. “Wait ’til we see her name; you’ll find I’m right.”
Another minute or so and the great ship swept close past them, her white ensign drooping from the peak and her pennant streaming out from her main-royal mast-head like a fiery gleam in the sunset glow, the look-out men on her forecastle and the officers on her bridge dwarfed to pigmies by comparison with the huge structure which bore them. As soon as she was fairly past the word Agincourt flashed from her stern in golden letters so large that they could be easily read without the aid of a telescope.