The Governor himself came off to return the Skipper's call, and brought off some of the shore chaps with a challenge to play us at football, hockey, tennis, cricket, polo, or anything and everything we jolly well liked.
That bucked us all up a bit, and Clegg, our Surgeon—a great, tall chap and a grand cricketer—who ran the sports on board, sent for me to fix up things. Between us we fixed enough matches to last the first ten days.
'Can't play you at polo,' we told them, 'we've only got one chap who's ever played in his life.'
'Well, I'll tell you what we'll do,' one of them said, 'we'll lend you ponies to practise for the match, and if you'll lend us one of your boats, we'll practise in her, and pull a race against you in ten days' time. What d'you say to that? That'll even up matters a bit.'
'Let's get this little lot finished first,' we said, laughing.
They were a sporting crowd. This was a Tuesday. On Wednesday we were to play Princes' Town at rugby—it made me sweat only to think of it, although this was what they called their winter—whilst the Hercules was to play the Country Club. On Thursday we were to change rounds, and on Friday the two ships were to play the whole of Prince Rupert's Island.
On Saturday they thought we might have a cricket match—if it wasn't too cold! 'Right you are,' we said, 'if there's anything left of us—though we shall probably be melted by that time.'
There were dances every night, and picnics and tennis parties for those who weren't playing anything else.
'We're going to have a fizzing time, Wilson, after all,' Dr. Clegg said, as we watched them go ashore, after having had no end of a job to get their boat alongside, because there was such a crowd of native boats swarming round the foot of the ladder, loaded down to the gunwales with bananas, oranges, melons, and things like that, the buck niggers on board them quarrelling, and squealing, and laughing, dodging the lumps of coal the side boys threw to make them keep their boats away from the gangway.
Most of the boats had their stern-sheets weighted down with black ladies, dressed in white calico skirts and coloured blouses, trying to look dignified and squealing all the time, holding up bits of paper whenever they caught sight of an officer, and singing out, 'Mister Officah, I vash your clo's—I hab de letter from naval officah—I good vasher-lady, you tell quatamasta, let me aboard—all de rest only black trash.'