The upward slope of that great
bow, it was never made to stand still against a dusty pier-end.
The club proceeded and found itself in a little eddy of pure
Scotland. The _Columbia_ was just in from Glasgow--had docked only
an hour before. The doctor became very Scots in a flash. "Aye,
bonny!" was his reply to every question asked him by Mr. Green, the
diligent secretary. The secretary was addressed as "lad." A hat now
became a "bonnet." The fine stiff speech of Glasgow was heard on
every side, for the passengers were streaming through the customs.
Yon were twa bonny wee brithers, aiblins ten years old, that came
marching off, with bare knees and ribbed woollen stockings and
little tweed jackets. O Scotland, Scotland, said our hairt! The wund
blaws snell frae the firth, whispered the secretary to himself,
keeking about, but had not the courage to utter it.
Here the secretary pauses on a point of delicacy. It was the purpose
of the club to visit Capt. David W. Bone of the _Columbia_, but the
captain is a modest man, and one knows not just how much of our
admiration of him and his ship he would care to see spread upon the
minutes. Were Mr. Green such a man as the captain, would he be
lowering himself to have any truck with journalists and such petty
folk? Mr. Green would not. Mark you: Captain Bone is the master of
an Atlantic liner, a veteran of the submarine-haunted lanes of sea,
a writer of fine books (have you, lovers of sea tales, read "The
Brassbounder" and "Broken Stowage"?) a collector of first editions,
a man who stood on the bridge of the flagship at Harwich and watched
the self-defiled U-boats slink in and come to a halt at the
international code signal MN (Stop instantly!)--"Ha," said Mr.
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