Those
wild, rollicking Seadogs! How the North Sea men would envy them and
their dower of dauntlessness! The Seadog takes his frugal lunch at the
club; he begins with a sole, and no doubt he casts a patronizing thought
towards the other Seadogs who trawled for the delicate fish. They are
not so like seamen in appearance as is the Cowes Seadog; they do not
wear shiny buttons; the polish on their boots is scarcely brilliant;
they wear unclean jumpers, and flannel trousers fit to make an aesthetic
Seadog faint with emotion of various sorts. No! they are not pattern
Seadogs at all--those North Sea workers. Would that they could learn a
lesson from the hardy Cowes Rover. Well, the Rover tries a cutlet after
his fish, then he has cheese and a grape or two, and he tops up his
frugal meal with a pint of British Imperial. A shilling cigar brings his
lunch up to just sixteen shillings--as much as a North Sea amateur could
earn in a week of luck--and then he prepares to face the terrors of the
Deep. Does he tremble? Do the thoughts of the Past arise in his soul?
Nay, the Seadog of Cowes is no man to be the prey of womanish tremors;
he goes gaily like a true Mariner to confront the elements. The boat is
ready, and four gallant salts are resting on their oars; the Seadog
steps recklessly on board and looks at the weather. Ha! there is a sea
of at least two inches high running, and that frail boat must traverse
that wild space.
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