And now behold the honorary steward in hour of duty and glory; see me circulate amid crowd, radiating affability and laughter, liberal with my sweetmeats and cigars.  I say unblushing things to hobbledehoy girls, tell shy young persons this is the married people’s boat, roguishly ask the abstracted if they are thinking of their sweethearts, offer Paterfamilias a cigar, am struck with the beauty and grow curious about the age of mamma’s youngest who (I assure her gaily) will be a man before his mother; or perhaps it may occur to me, from the sensible expression of her face, that she is a person of good counsel, and I ask her earnestly if she knows any particularly pleasant place on the Saucelito or San Rafael coast, for the scene of our picnic is always supposed to be uncertain.  The next moment I am back at my giddy badinage with the young ladies, wakening laughter as I go, and leaving in my wake applausive comments of “Isn’t Mr. Dodd a funny gentleman?” and “O, I think he’s just too nice!”

An hour having passed in this airy manner, I start upon my rounds afresh, with a bag full of coloured tickets, all with pins attached, and all with legible inscriptions:  “Old Germany,” “California,” “True Love,” “Old Fogies,” “La Belle France,” “Green Erin,” “The Land of Cakes,” “Washington,” “Blue Jay,” “Robin Red-Breast,”—­twenty of each denomination; for when it comes to the luncheon, we sit down by twenties.  These are distributed with anxious tact—­for, indeed, this is the most delicate part of my functions—­but outwardly with reckless unconcern, amidst the gayest flutter and confusion; and are immediately after sported upon hats and bonnets, to the extreme diffusion of cordiality, total strangers hailing each other by “the number of their mess”—­so we humorously name it—­and the deck ringing with cries of, “Here, all Blue Jays to the rescue!” or, “I say, am I alone in this blame’ ship?  Ain’t there no more Californians?”

By this time we are drawing near to the appointed spot.  I mount upon the bridge, the observed of all observers.

“Captain,” I say, in clear, emphatic tones, heard far and wide, “the majority of the company appear to be in favour of the little cove beyond One Tree Point.”

“All right, Mr. Dodd,” responds the captain, heartily; “all one to me.  I am not exactly sure of the place you mean; but just you stay here and pilot me.”

I do, pointing with my wand.  I do pilot him, to the inexpressible entertainment of the picnic; for I am (why should I deny it?) the popular man.  We slow down off the mouth of a grassy valley, watered by a brook, and set in pines and redwoods.  The anchor is let go; the boats are lowered, two of them already packed with the materials of an impromptu bar; and the Pioneer Band, accompanied by the resplendent asses, fill the other, and move shoreward to the inviting strains of Buffalo Gals, won’t you come out to-night?  It is a part of our programme that one of the asses shall, from sheer clumsiness, in the course of this embarkation, drop a dummy axe into the water, whereupon the mirth of the picnic can hardly be assuaged.  Upon one occasion, the dummy axe floated, and the laugh turned rather the wrong way.