Wednesday.—Another quiet sitting with Employers' Liability Bill. Cap'en Tommy Bowles, respectfully removing his tarpaulin, and shifting his quid, relieved dullness of afternoon by some capital yarns. One drew a vivid picture of dangers that lurk behind the casual pilot. On a dark night in midsummer Cap'en Tommy, a-sailing down the coast of Barbaree, came upon what looked like a town. Turned out to be Algiers; hauled down his main yard; ran out the topgallantsail spanker, and bore down on the harbour. Just as he was entering was boarded by pilot.
"Sheer off!" says Tommy through his polyglot speaking-trumpet. "Don't want your help; know every rock and shoal on the coast; will take the ship in myself."
Pilot produced from lining at back of his trousers Code of Regulations; this set forth that pilot was compulsory. Nothing to do but submit, unless he would involve Great Britain in war. Pilot came aboard; took charge; forged ahead; just going to run ship on breakwater when Tommy's keen eye perceived danger.
"Sir," said the only Member of House of Commons who, since Big Ben's death, holds a sea captain's certificate, "I took my ship out of the pilot's hand, and brought her in safely."
House uproariously cheered, and Frank Lockwood went off and drew a sketch of the historical scene.
Business done.—More of Employers' Liability Bill.
Thursday.—Government in difficulties to-night. Cherchez la femme. Walter M'Laren had her in charge; a modest little thing, merely asking that women, whether married or single, should be enabled to vote at election of Parish Councils. House not very full; no danger anticipated; but Conservatives joined their forces with Radicals below gangway, and before Ministers quite knew where they were they found themselves in minority of twenty-one.
"Winged!" cried Admiral Borthwick. "The Fowler went out shooting, and comes home shot."
"Winged!"