As to my eating for breakfast a flying-fish, which somebody on board had caught and given me, all I ask is, why shouldn’t I? I never had eaten a flying-fish before, and I don’t think I ever shall again. If the gentleman who caught it didn’t want me to eat it, he should have said so: for there were three courses open to him; viz., first, to refuse to give it me; secondly, to give it me on condition that I kept it in memory of the occasion; thirdly, to throw it back into the sea. But there was only one course open to me when I got it, and that was the first course at breakfast; the second course was kidgeree. It was a small fish just enough for one, and now I rather fancy I remember this Black and White correspondent, for it must have been he, coming to my table, eyeing the fish, smacking his lips, and observing that he “had never had the chance of tasting a fried flying-fish.” At that moment I was just finishing the tail (a sweet morsel and not the worst part by any means), and there was nothing left to offer him. So he went away disappointed, with a grudge against yours truly. This, Sir, is the true tale of the flying-fish, and if it isn’t, let me hear the revised version from my aspersers and caluminators. I can write no more to-day. I am boiling over, and must go and kick somebody. Yours, &c.,
[Illustration: Grandolph the Explorer.]
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