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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
142
"I
have,"
hiccoughed
the
skipper,
eyeing
the
bottle,
and
added
with
a
brutal
laugh
that
"he
could
weather
the
roughest
gale
that
ever
wind
did
blow."
A
whole
Gaelic
society,
he
said,
wouldn't
fizz
on
him.
Draining
a
final
glass
of
grog,
he
rose
from
his
chair,
said
grace,
and
staggered
on
deck.
All
the
time
the
wind
blew
colder
and
louder.
The
billows
frothed
like
yeast.
It
was
a
yeast
wind.
The
evening
wore
on.
Old
Henry
shuffled
about
the
cabin
in
nervous
misery.
The
skipper's
daughter
sat
quietly
at
the
table
selecting
verses
from
a
Biblical
clock
to
amuse
the
ship's
bosun,
who
was
suffering
from
toothache.
At
about
ten
Longfellow
went
to
his
bunk,
requesting
the
girl
to
remain
up
in
his
cabin.
For
half
an
hour
all
was
quiet,
save
the
roaring
of
the
winter
wind.
Then
the
girl
heard
the
old
gentleman
start
up
in
bed.
"What's
that
bell,
what's
that
bell?"
he
gasped.
A
minute
later
he
emerged
from
his
cabin
wearing
a
cork
jacket
and
trousers
over
his
pyjamas.
"Sissy,"
he
said,
"go
up
and
ask
your
pop
who
rang
that
bell."
The
obedient
child
returned.
"Please,
Mr.
Longfellow,"
she
said,
"pa
says
there
weren't
no
bell."
The
old
man
sank
into
a
chair
and
remained
with
his
head
buried
in
his
hands.
"Say,"
he
exclaimed
presently,
"someone's
firing
guns
and
there's
a
glimmering
light
somewhere.
You'd
better
go
upstairs
again."
Again
the
child
returned.
"The
crew
are
guessing
at
an
acrostic,
and
occasionally
they
get
a
glimmering
of
it."
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