"That's it," said Daly, "now you have it—no man can have any business in a pleasure-boat. Good-day, sir. That's all."
I confess I was a good deal shocked at this mode of terminating the colloquy. However, no ill consequences arose; the fat man went his way, and so did we, and in a few minutes more embarked in Daly's "pleasure"-boat, in which I felt, according to his dictum, that I had no business whatever.
Richmond, which seems, every time one sees it, as if it were dressed to look lovely for that particular day, was smiling in all its radiance and gaiety; the velvet meadows of Twickenham, studded with noble trees, looked cooler and greener than ever; and my friend began to perform that incomprehensibly agreeable exercise of pulling up against the stream, when all at once a thought seemed to flash across his mind and a look of regret sadden his countenance; the expression was too distinct to be mistaken or disregarded.
"What," said I, "what is the matter? have you left anything behind?"
"No," said he, laughing; "but if I had thought of it, we would not have come away so soon from Richmond; and I would have shown you some sport in Cockney-catching."
"What do you mean?" asked innocent I.
"A trick specially my own," replied Daly, "to be played with the greatest success between the grounds of Sion and Kew Gardens. Thus:—In the dusk of the evening—I prescribe scientifically—take a strong line, fix him to a peg in the bank of Sion, carry him across the river, and fix him to another peg in the bank of Kew; strain him tight, and then retire to watch the effect. Tide running down, presently comes a Cockney couple, the man flirting and pulling, the lady sitting and smiling; when they reach the chosen spot, the tight line catches the Cockney Corydon on the back of his head, and tumbles him forward at the feet of his Phyllis; in a twinkling, the same effect is produced on the lady, with this single simple difference, that the cord catches her under the chin, and tumbles her backwards. In the confusion of the moment, tide ebbing fast, the happy pair are swept down the stream, and having, after the lapse of a few minutes, set themselves to rights again, begin to wonder what has happened, and of course never think of trying back against tide to ascertain the cause; which, however, if they did, would assist them little, for the moment you have caught your Cockneys, you cast off the line from the peg, and the cause of the mischief disappears from the sight—probatum est."
"That seems rather a serious joke," said I.
"Umph!" replied Daly; "perhaps you would prefer keeping the line, but for my part I am not particular."
This he certainly need not have mentioned. Every moment added fresh evidence to the fearful fact; I was yet unprepared for what was to come.