Chapter 25 (4)

Opposite him, and with her back to the door, was a lady of no
whit the less extraordinary character. Although quite as tall as
the person just described, she had no right to complain of his
unnatural emaciation. She was evidently in the last stage of a
dropsy; and her figure resembled nearly that of the huge puncheon
of October beer which stood, with the head driven in, close by
her side, in a corner of the chamber. Her face was exceedingly
round, red, and full; and the same peculiarity, or rather want of
peculiarity, attached itself to her countenance, which I before
mentioned in the case of the president—that is to say, only one
feature of her face was sufficiently distinguished to need a
separate characterization: indeed the acute Tarpaulin immediately
observed that the same remark might have applied to each
individual person of the party; every one of whom seemed to
possess a monopoly of some particular portion of physiognomy.
With the lady in question this portion proved to be the mouth.
Commencing at the right ear, it swept with a terrific chasm to
the left—the short pendants which she wore in either auricle
continually bobbing into the aperture. She made, however, every
exertion to keep her mouth closed and look dignified, in a dress
consisting of a newly starched and ironed shroud coming up close
under her chin, with a crimpled ruffle of cambric muslin.

At her right hand sat a diminutive young lady whom she appeared
to patronise. This delicate little creature, in the trembling of
her wasted fingers, in the livid hue of her lips, and in the
slight hectic spot which tinged her otherwise leaden complexion,
gave evident indications of a galloping consumption. An air of
extreme _haut ton_, however, pervaded her whole appearance; she
wore in a graceful and _dégagé_ manner, a large and beautiful
winding-sheet of the finest India lawn; her hair hung in ringlets
over her neck; a soft smile played about her mouth; but her nose,
extremely long, thin, sinuous, flexible and pimpled, hung down
far below her under lip, and in spite of the delicate manner in
which she now and then moved it to one side or the other with her
tongue, gave to her countenance a somewhat equivocal expression.

Over against her, and upon the left of the dropsical lady, was
seated a little puffy, wheezing, and gouty old man, whose cheeks
reposed upon the shoulders of their owner, like two huge bladders
of Oporto wine. With his arms folded, and with one bandaged leg
deposited upon the table, he seemed to think himself entitled to
some consideration. He evidently prided himself much upon every
inch of his personal appearance, but took more especial delight
in calling attention to his gaudy-colored surtout. This, to say
the truth, must have cost him no little money, and was made to
fit him exceedingly well—being fashioned from one of the
curiously embroidered silken covers appertaining to those
glorious escutcheons which, in England and elsewhere, are
customarily hung up, in some conspicuous place, upon the
dwellings of departed aristocracy.

Next to him, and at the right hand of the president, was a
gentleman in long white hose and cotton drawers. His frame shook,
in a ridiculous manner, with a fit of what Tarpaulin called “the
horrors.” His jaws, which had been newly shaved, were tightly
tied up by a bandage of muslin; and his arms being fastened in a
similar way at the wrists, prevented him from helping himself too
freely to the liquors upon the table; a precaution rendered
necessary, in the opinion of Legs, by the peculiarly sottish and
wine-bibbing cast of his visage. A pair of prodigious ears,
nevertheless, which it was no doubt found impossible to confine,
towered away into the atmosphere of the apartment, and were
occasionally pricked up in a spasm, at the sound of the drawing
of a cork.

Fronting him, sixthly and lastly, was situated a singularly
stiff-looking personage, who, being afflicted with paralysis,
must, to speak seriously, have felt very ill at ease in his
unaccommodating habiliments. He was habited, somewhat uniquely,
in a new and handsome mahogany coffin. Its top or head-piece
pressed upon the skull of the wearer, and extended over it in the
fashion of a hood, giving to the entire face an air of
indescribable interest. Arm-holes had been cut in the sides, for
the sake not more of elegance than of convenience; but the dress,
nevertheless, prevented its proprietor from sitting as erect as
his associates; and as he lay reclining against his tressel, at
an angle of forty-five degrees, a pair of huge goggle eyes rolled
up their awful whites towards the ceiling in absolute amazement
at their own enormity.

Before each of the party lay a portion of a skull, which was used
as a drinking cup. Overhead was suspended a human skeleton, by
means of a rope tied round one of the legs and fastened to a ring
in the ceiling. The other limb, confined by no such fetter, stuck
off from the body at right angles, causing the whole loose and
rattling frame to dangle and twirl about at the caprice of every
occasional puff of wind which found its way into the apartment.
In the cranium of this hideous thing lay quantity of ignited
charcoal, which threw a fitful but vivid light over the entire
scene; while coffins, and other wares appertaining to the shop of
an undertaker, were piled high up around the room, and against
the windows, preventing any ray from escaping into the street.

At sight of this extraordinary assembly, and of their still more
extraordinary paraphernalia, our two seamen did not conduct
themselves with that degree of decorum which might have been
expected. Legs, leaning against the wall near which he happened
to be standing, dropped his lower jaw still lower than usual, and
spread open his eyes to their fullest extent: while Hugh
Tarpaulin, stooping down so as to bring his nose upon a level
with the table, and spreading out a palm upon either knee, burst
into a long, loud, and obstreperous roar of very ill-timed and
immoderate laughter.

Without, however, taking offence at behaviour so excessively
rude, the tall president smiled very graciously upon the
intruders—nodded to them in a dignified manner with his head of
sable plumes—and, arising, took each by an arm, and led him to a
seat which some others of the company had placed in the meantime
for his accommodation. Legs to all this offered not the slightest
resistance, but sat down as he was directed; while the gallant
Hugh, removing his coffin tressel from its station near the head
of the table, to the vicinity of the little consumptive lady in
the winding sheet, plumped down by her side in high glee, and
pouring out a skull of red wine, quaffed it to their better
acquaintance. But at this presumption the stiff gentleman in the
coffin seemed exceedingly nettled; and serious consequences might
have ensued, had not the president, rapping upon the table with
his truncheon, diverted the attention of all present to the
following speech:

“It becomes our duty upon the present happy occasion—”

“Avast there!” interrupted Legs, looking very serious, “avast
there a bit, I say, and tell us who the devil ye all are, and
what business ye have here, rigged off like the foul fiends, and
swilling the snug blue ruin stowed away for the winter by my
honest shipmate, Will Wimble, the undertaker!”

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original
company half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid
succession of wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the
attention of the seamen. The president, however, was the first to
recover his composure, and at length, turning to Legs with great
dignity, recommenced:

“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the
part of guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then
that in these dominions I am monarch, and here rule with
undivided empire under the title of ‘King Pest the First.’

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the
shop of Will Wimble the undertaker—a man whom we know not, and
whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted
our royal ears—this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our
Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other
sacred and lofty purposes.

“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene
Consort. The other exalted personages whom you behold are all of
our family, and wear the insignia of the blood royal under the
respective titles of ‘His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’—‘His
Grace the Duke Pest-Ilential’—‘His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest’—and
‘Her Serene Highness the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’

“As regards,” continued he, “your demand of the business upon
which we sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying
that it concerns, and concerns alone, our own private and regal
interest, and is in no manner important to any other than
ourself. But in consideration of those rights to which as guests
and strangers you may feel yourselves entitled, we will
furthermore explain that we are here this night, prepared by deep
research and accurate investigation, to examine, analyze, and
thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit—the incomprehensible
qualities and nature—of those inestimable treasures of the
palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis:
by so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true
welfare of that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all,
whose dominions are unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death’.”

“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the
lady by his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second
for himself.

“Profane varlet!” said the president, now turning his attention
to the worthy Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch!—we have said,
that in consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy
person, we feel no inclination to violate, we have condescended
to make reply to thy rude and unseasonable inquiries. We
nevertheless, for your unhallowed intrusion upon our councils,
believe it our duty to mulct thee and thy companion in each a
gallon of Black Strap—having imbibed which to the prosperity of
our kingdom—at a single draught—and upon your bended knees—ye
shall be forthwith free either to proceed upon your way, or
remain and be admitted to the privileges of our table, according
to your respective and individual pleasures.”

“It would be a matter of utter impossibility,” replied Legs, whom
the assumptions and dignity of King Pest the First had evidently
inspired some feelings of respect, and who arose and steadied
himself by the table as he spoke—“it would, please your majesty,
be a matter of utter impossibility to stow away in my hold even
one-fourth part of the same liquor which your majesty has just
mentioned. To say nothing of the stuffs placed on board in the
forenoon by way of ballast, and not to mention the various ales
and liqueurs shipped this evening at different sea-ports, I have,
at present, a full cargo of ‘humming-stuff’ taken in and duly
paid for at the sign of the ‘Jolly Tar.’ You will, therefore,
please your majesty, be so good as to take the will for the
deed—for by no manner of means either can I or will I swallow
another drop—least of all a drop of that villainous bilge-water
that answers to the name of ‘Black Strap.’”

“Belay that!” interrupted Tarpaulin, astonished not more at the
length of his companion’s speech than at the nature of his
refusal—“Belay that you lubber!—and I say, Legs, none of your
palaver! _My_ hull is still light, although I confess you
yourself seem to be a little top-heavy; and as for the matter of
your share of the cargo, why rather than raise a squall I would
find stowage-room for it myself, but—”

“This proceeding,” interposed the president, “is by no means in
accordance with the terms of the mulct or sentence, which is in
its nature Median, and not to be altered or recalled. The
conditions we have imposed must be fulfilled to the letter, and
that without a moment’s hesitation—in failure of which fulfilment
we decree that you do here be tied neck and heels together, and
duly drowned as rebels in yon hogshead of October beer!”

“A sentence!—a sentence!—a righteous and just sentence!—a
glorious decree!—a most worthy and upright, and holy
condemnation!” shouted the Pest family altogether. The king
elevated his forehead into innumerable wrinkles; the gouty little
old man puffed like a pair of bellows; the lady of the winding
sheet waved her nose to and fro; the gentleman in the cotton
drawers pricked up his ears; she of the shroud gasped like a
dying fish; and he of the coffin looked stiff and rolled up his
eyes.

“Ugh! ugh! ugh!” chuckled Tarpaulin without heeding the general
excitation, “ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—ugh! ugh! ugh!—I was
saying,” said he, “I was saying when Mr. King Pest poked in his
marlin-spike, that as for the matter of two or three gallons more
or less of Black Strap, it was a trifle to a tight sea-boat like
myself not overstowed—but when it comes to drinking the health of
the Devil (whom God assoilzie) and going down upon my marrow
bones to his ill-favored majesty there, whom I know, as well as I
know myself to be a sinner, to be nobody in the whole world, but
Tim Hurlygurly the stage-player!—why! it’s quite another guess
sort of a thing, and utterly and altogether past my
comprehension.”

He was not allowed to finish this speech in tranquillity. At the
name Tim Hurlygurly the whole assembly leaped from their name
seats.

“Treason!” shouted his Majesty King Pest the First.

“Treason!” said the little man with the gout.

“Treason!” screamed the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

“Treason!” muttered the gentleman with his jaws tied up.

“Treason!” growled he of the coffin.

“Treason! treason!” shrieked her majesty of the mouth; and,
seizing by the hinder part of his breeches the unfortunate
Tarpaulin, who had just commenced pouring out for himself a skull
of liqueur, she lifted him high into the air, and let him fall
without ceremony into the huge open puncheon of his beloved ale.
Bobbing up and down, for a few seconds, like an apple in a bowl
of toddy, he, at length, finally disappeared amid the whirlpool
of foam which, in the already effervescent liquor, his struggles
easily succeeded in creating.

Not tamely, however, did the tall seaman behold the discomfiture
of his companion. Jostling King Pest through the open trap, the
valiant Legs slammed the door down upon him with an oath, and
strode towards the centre of the room. Here tearing down the
skeleton which swung over the table, he laid it about him with so
much energy and good will, that, as the last glimpses of light
died away within the apartment, he succeeded in knocking out the
brains of the little gentleman with the gout. Rushing then with
all his force against the fatal hogshead full of October ale and
Hugh Tarpaulin, he rolled it over and over in an instant. Out
burst a deluge of liquor so fierce—so impetuous—so
overwhelming—that the room was flooded from wall to wall—the
loaded table was overturned—the tressels were thrown upon their
backs—the tub of punch into the fire-place—and the ladies into
hysterics. Piles of death-furniture floundered about. Jugs,
pitchers, and carboys mingled promiscuously in the _mêlée_, and
wicker flagons encountered desperately with bottles of junk. The
man with the horrors was drowned upon the spot—the little stiff
gentleman floated off in his coffin—and the victorious Legs,
seizing by the waist the fat lady in the shroud, rushed out with
her into the street, and made a bee-line for the _Free and Easy_,
followed under easy sail by the redoubtable Hugh Tarpaulin, who,
having sneezed three or four times, panted and puffed after him
with the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.

THREE SUNDAYS IN A WEEK

“You hard-headed, dunder-headed, obstinate, rusty, crusty, musty,
fusty, old savage!” said I, in fancy, one afternoon, to my grand
uncle Rumgudgeon—shaking my fist at him in imagination.

Only in imagination. The fact is, some trivial discrepancy _did_
exist, just then, between what I said and what I had not the
courage to say—between what I did and what I had half a mind to
do.

The old porpoise, as I opened the drawing-room door, was sitting
with his feet upon the mantel-piece, and a bumper of port in his
paw, making strenuous efforts to accomplish the ditty.

Remplis ton verre vide!
Vide ton verre plein!

“My _dear_ uncle,” said I, closing the door gently, and
approaching him with the blandest of smiles, “you are always so
very kind and considerate, and have evinced your benevolence in
so many—so very many ways—that—that I feel I have only to suggest
this little point to you once more to make sure of your full
acquiescence.”

“Hem!” said he, “good boy! go on!”

“I am sure, my dearest uncle (you confounded old rascal!), that
you have no design really, seriously, to oppose my union with
Kate. This is merely a joke of yours, I know—ha! ha! ha!—how very
pleasant you are at times.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” said he, “curse you! yes!”

“To be sure—of course! I knew you were jesting. Now, uncle, all
that Kate and myself wish at present, is that you would oblige us
with your advice as—as regards the time—you know, uncle—in short,
when will it be most convenient for yourself, that the wedding
shall—shall—come off, you know?”

“Come off, you scoundrel!—what do you mean by that?—Better wait
till it goes on.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—he! he! he!—hi! hi! hi!—ho! ho! ho!—hu! hu! hu!—oh,
that’s good!—oh, that’s capital—_such_ a wit! But all we want
just _now_, you know, uncle, is that you would indicate the time
precisely.”

“Ah!—precisely?”

“Yes, uncle—that is, if it would be quite agreeable to yourself.”

“Wouldn’t it answer, Bobby, if I were to leave it at random—some
time within a year or so, for example?—_must_ I say precisely?”

“_If_ you please, uncle—precisely.”

“Well, then, Bobby, my boy—you’re a fine fellow, aren’t
you?—since you _will_ have the exact time I’ll—why I’ll oblige
you for once.”

“Dear uncle!”

“Hush, sir!” (drowning my voice)—“I’ll oblige you for once. You
shall have my consent—and the _plum_, we mus’n’t forget the
plum—let me see! when shall it be? To-day’s Sunday—isn’t it?
Well, then, you shall be married precisely—_precisely_, now
mind!—_when three Sundays come together in a week!_ Do you hear
me, sir! _What_ are you gaping at? I say, you shall have Kate and
her plum when three Sundays come together in a week—but not
_till_ then—you young scapegrace—not _till_ then, if I die for
it. You know me—_I’m a man of my word_—now be off!” Here he
swallowed his bumper of port, while I rushed from the room in
despair.

A very “fine old English gentleman,” was my grand-uncle
Rumgudgeon, but unlike him of the song, he had his weak points.
He was a little, pursy, pompous, passionate semicircular
somebody, with a red nose, a thick skull, a long purse, and a
strong sense of his own consequence. With the best heart in the
world, he contrived, through a predominant whim of contradiction,
to earn for himself, among those who only knew him superficially,
the character of a curmudgeon. Like many excellent people, he
seemed possessed with a spirit of tantalization, which might
easily, at a casual glance, have been mistaken for malevolence.
To every request, a positive “No!” was his immediate answer; but
in the end—in the long, long end—there were exceedingly few
requests which he refused. Against all attacks upon his purse he
made the most sturdy defence; but the amount extorted from him,
at last, was generally in direct ratio with the length of the
siege and the stubbornness of the resistance. In charity no one
gave more liberally or with a worse grace.

For the fine arts, and especially for the belles-lettres, he
entertained a profound contempt. With this he had been inspired
by Casimir Perier, whose pert little query “A quoi un poete est
il bon?” he was in the habit of quoting, with a very droll
pronunciation, as the ne plus ultra of logical wit. Thus my own
inkling for the Muses had excited his entire displeasure. He
assured me one day, when I asked him for a new copy of Horace,
that the translation of “Poeta nascitur non fit” was “a nasty
poet for nothing fit”—a remark which I took in high dudgeon. His
repugnance to “the humanities” had, also, much increased of late,
by an accidental bias in favor of what he supposed to be natural
science. Somebody had accosted him in the street, mistaking him
for no less a personage than Doctor Dubble L. Dee, the lecturer
upon quack physics. This set him off at a tangent; and just at
the epoch of this story—for story it is getting to be after
all—my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon was accessible and pacific only
upon points which happened to chime in with the caprioles of the
hobby he was riding. For the rest, he laughed with his arms and
legs, and his politics were stubborn and easily understood. He
thought, with Horsley, that “the people have nothing to do with
the laws but to obey them.”

I had lived with the old gentleman all my life. My parents, in
dying, had bequeathed me to him as a rich legacy. I believe the
old villain loved me as his own child—nearly if not quite as well
as he loved Kate—but it was a dog’s existence that he led me,
after all. From my first year until my fifth, he obliged me with
very regular floggings. From five to fifteen, he threatened me,
hourly, with the House of Correction. From fifteen to twenty, not
a day passed in which he did not promise to cut me off with a
shilling. I was a sad dog, it is true—but then it was a part of
my nature—a point of my faith. In Kate, however, I had a firm
friend, and I knew it. She was a good girl, and told me very
sweetly that I might have her (plum and all) whenever I could
badger my grand-uncle Rumgudgeon, into the necessary consent.
Poor girl!—she was barely fifteen, and without this consent, her
little amount in the funds was not come-at-able until five
immeasurable summers had “dragged their slow length along.” What,
then, to do? At fifteen, or even at twenty-one (for I had now
passed my fifth olympiad) five years in prospect are very much
the same as five hundred. In vain we besieged the old gentleman
with importunities. Here was a piece de resistance (as Messieurs
Ude and Careme would say) which suited his perverse fancy to a T.
It would have stiffed the indignation of Job himself, to see how
much like an old mouser he behaved to us two poor wretched little
mice. In his heart he wished for nothing more ardently than our
union. He had made up his mind to this all along. In fact, he
would have given ten thousand pounds from his own pocket (Kate’s
plum was her own) if he could have invented any thing like an
excuse for complying with our very natural wishes. But then we
had been so imprudent as to broach the subject ourselves. Not to
oppose it under such circumstances, I sincerely believe, was not
in his power.

I have said already that he had his weak points; but in speaking
of these, I must not be understood as referring to his obstinacy:
which was one of his strong points—“assurement ce n’ etait pas sa
foible.” When I mention his weakness I have allusion to a bizarre
old-womanish superstition which beset him. He was great in
dreams, portents, et id genus omne of rigmarole. He was
excessively punctilious, too, upon small points of honor, and,
after his own fashion, was a man of his word, beyond doubt. This
was, in fact, one of his hobbies. The spirit of his vows he made
no scruple of setting at naught, but the letter was a bond
inviolable. Now it was this latter peculiarity in his
disposition, of which Kate’s ingenuity enabled us one fine day,
not long after our interview in the dining-room, to take a very
unexpected advantage, and, having thus, in the fashion of all
modern bards and orators, exhausted in prolegomena, all the time
at my command, and nearly all the room at my disposal, I will sum
up in a few words what constitutes the whole pith of the story.

It happened then—so the Fates ordered it—that among the naval
acquaintances of my betrothed, were two gentlemen who had just
set foot upon the shores of England, after a year’s absence,
each, in foreign travel. In company with these gentlemen, my
cousin and I, preconcertedly paid uncle Rumgudgeon a visit on the
afternoon of Sunday, October the tenth,—just three weeks after
the memorable decision which had so cruelly defeated our hopes.
For about half an hour the conversation ran upon ordinary topics,
but at last, we contrived, quite naturally, to give it the
following turn:

CAPT. PRATT. “Well I have been absent just one year.—Just one
year to-day, as I live—let me see! yes!—this is October the
tenth. You remember, Mr. Rumgudgeon, I called, this day year to
bid you good-bye. And by the way, it does seem something like a
coincidence, does it not—that our friend, Captain Smitherton,
here, has been absent exactly a year also—a year to-day!”

SMITHERTON. “Yes! just one year to a fraction. You will remember,
Mr. Rumgudgeon, that I called with Capt. Pratol on this very day,
last year, to pay my parting respects.”

UNCLE. “Yes, yes, yes—I remember it very well—very queer indeed!
Both of you gone just one year. A very strange coincidence,
indeed! Just what Doctor Dubble L. Dee would denominate an
extraordinary concurrence of events. Doctor Dub—”

KATE. (Interrupting.) “To be sure, papa, it is something strange;
but then Captain Pratt and Captain Smitherton didn’t go
altogether the same route, and that makes a difference, you
know.”

UNCLE. “I don’t know any such thing, you huzzy! How should I? I
think it only makes the matter more remarkable, Doctor Dubble L.
Dee—”

KATE. “Why, papa, Captain Pratt went round Cape Horn, and Captain
Smitherton doubled the Cape of Good Hope.”

UNCLE. “Precisely!—the one went east and the other went west, you
jade, and they both have gone quite round the world. By the by,
Doctor Dubble L. Dee—”

MYSELF. (Hurriedly.) “Captain Pratt, you must come and spend the
evening with us to-morrow—you and Smitherton—you can tell us all
about your voyage, and we’ll have a game of whist and—”

PRATT. “Wist, my dear fellow—you forget. To-morrow will be
Sunday. Some other evening—”

KATE. “Oh, no, fie!—Robert’s not quite so bad as that. To-day’s
Sunday.”

PRATT. “I beg both your pardons—but I can’t be so much mistaken.
I know to-morrow’s Sunday, because-”

SMITHERTON. (Much surprised.) “What are you all thinking about?
Wasn’t yesterday, Sunday, I should like to know?”

ALL. “Yesterday indeed! you are out!”

UNCLE. “To-day’s Sunday, I say—don’t I know?”

PRATT. “Oh no!—to-morrow’s Sunday.”

SMITHERTON. “You are all mad—every one of you. I am as positive
that yesterday was Sunday as I am that I sit upon this chair.”

KATE. (Jumping up eagerly.) “I see it—I see it all. Papa, this is
a judgment upon you, about—about you know what. Let me alone, and
I’ll explain it all in a minute. It’s a very simple thing,
indeed. Captain Smitherton says that yesterday was Sunday: so it
was; he is right. Cousin Bobby, and uncle and I say that to-day
is Sunday: so it is; we are right. Captain Pratt maintains that
to-morrow will be Sunday: so it will; he is right, too. The fact
is, we are all right, and thus three Sundays have come together
in a week.”

SMITHERTON. (After a pause.) “By the by, Pratt, Kate has us
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter
stands thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles
in circumference. Now this globe of the earth turns upon its own
axis—revolves—spins round—these twenty-four thousand miles of
extent, going from west to east, in precisely twenty-four hours.
Do you understand, Mr. Rumgudgeon?—”

UNCLE. “To be sure—to be sure—Doctor Dub—”

SMITHERTON. (Drowning his voice.) “Well, sir; that is at the rate
of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from
this position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the
rising of the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun
rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction,
yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two
hours—another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and
so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this
spot, when, having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I
anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than
twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day in advance of your
time. Understand, eh?”

UNCLE. “But Double L. Dee—”

SMITHERTON. (Speaking very loud.) “Captain Pratt, on the
contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this
position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four
thousand miles west, was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind
the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus,
with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus, with Pratt, to-morrow will
be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively
clear that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical
reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference
over that of the other.”

UNCLE. “My eyes!—well, Kate—well, Bobby!—this is a judgment upon
me, as you say. But I am a man of my word—mark that! you shall
have her, boy, (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove!
Three Sundays all in a row! I’ll go, and take Dubble L. Dee’s
opinion upon that.”