To which George replied, ‘I seen him come aboard.’
And this brief remark of George’s conveyed a world of untold fact.
September 26.—
We dropped anchor outside Hull at half-past five this evening, in the remainder of the very same drizzling rain that was going on when we left England in July.
Hull on Sunday in a soaking rain is not a place to grow romantic about, so we omit all reference to our first sensations and maledictions on our return to our native climate, and proceed to a more agreeable subject—dinner.
It was a merry meal in company with four of our fellow-passengers, who were likewise returning from sport in Norway—two from salmon fishing, two from red-deer stalking, and with whom there was consequently a bond of sympathy.
With these kindred spirits, after British beef had been washed down with British beer, a Skaal drunk in British champagne, and tongues were loosened by the confidential pipe and British cigar, we chatted long and pleasantly; wandering again with rod and gun among the rugged mountains of that wild north land, recalling exploits performed, and perhaps indulging in those mild and harmless exaggerations of doughty deeds which no traveller or sportsman can resist. Already we found ourselves forgetting the few disagreeable incidents that occurred during our trip, and viewing everything through that rosy mist which happily arises before all past hours of pleasure and discomfort alike. Too soon bedtime put an end to our retrospect, and we slept the sleep of the wearied traveller, with dreams of trout, ryper, and reindeer—steamboat, cariole, and sleigh—mountain, lake, and river—tent and sæter—paddle and pony—hurrying through our brains in wild confusion.
To-morrow, alas! we commence again a life of gilded misery and gloomy magnificence. Give to us the untrammelled freedom of ‘Gammle Norgé,’ and the humble crust of fladbrod——with JAM.
