There’s the light-house; we’ll soon be in. See that hotel on the hill? I’ve just time to tell you of something that happened there on a summer morning a few years ago. I met Dr. ———— on the Providence boat and he asked where we were stopping and if we had any fishing. When I told him of the “Quickstep” and Captain Frank and the mackerel, he said, “I’ll be over Monday morning. I’m tired of Assemblies and Chautauquas and hotel piazzas.” Monday found him with us, and arrangements were made to start at five o’clock Tuesday morning. The hour came, but Dr. ———— did not. The captain worried about the tide and the bar, and I volunteered to see what had become of our tardy friend. Pounding on the hotel door I finally managed to rout out the night watchman, who readily went in quest of the Doctor. Upon his return he reported that the would-be fisherman had been asleep, but was now dressing and would be down very soon. The minutes passed, the tide was ebbing, and no Doctor. Finally I suggested to the watchman that he make another trip to see if he could not accelerate the Doctor’s motions. Reappearing after a little, the watchman said, “What do you think? That miserable old cuss had gone sound asleep again.”
“What a fall was there, my countrymen!” The D. D., the LL. D., the eloquent preacher, the famous lecturer, the renowned defender of the “faith once delivered to the saints,” the man whose name is a household word among those affiliated with one of our largest Protestant bodies catalogued as a “miserable old cuss!”
Here we are, at the pier. Confess now, that for unadulterated pleasure a sail such as we’ve just had beats motoring, whether on land or water, out of sight. Independent of the wind in a motor boat? Yes, but not of the sputtering and chugging and smell. Remember what Tennyson says in Locksley Hall? I don’t know that I can quote it accurately, but the idea is that a day in a cat-boat is better than a thousand years in a naphtha launch.
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‘T is night upon the lake,