An elderly lord was on board. A very loud lord as to voice. A mighty lord in rank and honors, if one might judge from the attentions of deck-stewards and some of the initiated passengers. A very big lord as to size. A very rich lord, if the evidence of furred mantles, and a staff of obsequious servants be admitted. A very pompous lord, whose stiffened cravat, beef-steak complexion and goggle-eyes reminded us of “Joey Bagstock, Tough Jo, J. B., sir!”
If, having sunk to the depths of suffering and degradation, we could have slid into a lower deep, it would have been by reason of that man’s struttings and vaporings and bullyings in our sight. He tramped the deck over and upon the feet of those who were too sick, or too much crowded to get out of his path,—courier and valet at his heels, one bearing a furled umbrella and a mackintosh in case it should rain, the other a second furred surtout should “my lord” grow chilly.
“Ill, sir! what do you mean, sir! I am never ill at sea!” he vociferated to the captain, who ventured a query and the offer of his own cabin should his lordship require the refuge.
“Pinafore” had not then been written, and the assertion went unchallenged.
“I have travelled thousands of miles by water, sir, and never known so much as a qualm of sea-sickness—not a qualm, sir! Do you take me for a woman, sir, or a fool?”
In his choler he was more like Bagstock than ever, as he continued his promenade, gurgling and puffing, goggling and wagging his head like an apoplectic china mandarin.
We were in mid-channel where there was a rush of master, servants, and officious deck-hands to the guards, that made the saddest sufferers raise their eyes. In a few minutes, the parting of the group of attendants showed the elderly lord, upon his feet, indeed, but staggering so wildly that the courier and a footman held him up between them while the valet settled his wig and replaced his hat. His complexion was ashes-of-violets, if there be such a tint,—his eyes were as devoid of speculation as those of a boiled fish. The steward picked up his gold-headed cane, but the flabby hands could not grasp it. The captain hastened forward.
“Very sorry, me lud, I’m sure, for the little accident. But it’s a nosty sea, this trip, me lud, as your ludship sees. An uncommon beastly sea! I hope your ludship is not suffering much?”
The British lion awoke in the great man’s bosom. The crimson of rage burned away the ashes. The eyes glared at the luckless official.
“Suffering, sir! Do you suppose I care for suffering? It is the dommed mortification of the thing!”