GRASP YOUR THISTLE.
Light Puffs raised a Little Swell.
The Port Bow.
Mr. Punch, Sir,—I would like to ask you, slick out, if you reckon it was all fair and square with that there Thistle's keel. For to hear that interested parties in that race had gone down in a diving-bell the evening before and screwed themselves on to that yacht would not have surprised me. And, let me tell you had they done so, they would have considerably impeded her progress the following day. That Captain Barr was cute enough when he said, "he couldn't make out what had come to his ship." Take my word what had come to it was just that diving-bell, and I shouldn't mind calculating that the owner of the Volunteer was boss of the interested parties fixed up inside of it. You ask "can such things take place in the States?" Wal—I guess they just can. Muchly so, when there's money on it. As to the diving-bell advantage, I speak feelingly, as I have assisted over a twenty-mile course in one myself. We were on that occasion found out at the finish. But it was all straight. The umpire, whom we had previously squared, and who was above reproach, gave it in our favour. It's knowing these things, coupled with the fact that I backed the Thistle for two hundred dollars, that makes me just throw out these friendly hints to you, Sir, from,
The Other Side of the Atlantic.
A Point of Law.
(By a Pun-propounding Gladstonophobist.)