Royal Adelaide." “I’ll lay a pair of crimping-irons against five shillings, the Magnet beats the Royal Adelaide,” bellowed out Green, who having come on board, had mounted the paddle-box.  “I say, Green, I’ll lay you an even five if you like.”  “Well, five pounds,” cries Green.  “No, shillings,” says his friend.  “Never bet in shillings,” replies Green, pulling up his shirt collar.  “I’ll bet fifty pounds,” he adds,-getting valiant.  “I’ll bet a hundred ponds—­a thousand pounds—­a million pounds—­half the National Debt, if you like.”

Precisely as the jetty clock finishes striking nine, the ropes are slipped, and the rival steamers stand out to sea with beautiful precision, amid the crying, the kissing of hands, the raising of hats, the waving of handkerchiefs, from those who are left for the week, while the passengers are cheered by adverse tunes from the respective bands on board.  The Magnet, having the outside, gets the breeze first hand, but the Royal Adelaide keeps well alongside, and both firemen being deeply interested in the event, they boil up a tremendous gallop, without either being able to claim the slightest advantage for upwards of an hour and a half, when the Royal Adelaide manages to shoot ahead for a few minutes, amid the cheers and exclamations of her crew.  The Magnet’s fireman, however, is on the alert, and a few extra pokes of the fire presently bring the boats together again, in which state they continue, nose and nose, until the stiller water of the side of the Thames favours the Magnet, and she shoots ahead amid the cheers and vociferations of her party, and is not neared again during the voyage.

This excitement over, the respective crews sink into a sort of melancholy sedateness, and Green in vain endeavours to kick up a quadrille.  The men were exhausted and the women dispirited, and altogether they were a very different set of beings to what they were on the Saturday.  Dull faces and dirty-white ducks were the order of the day.

The only incident of the voyage was, that on approaching the mouth of the Medway, the Royal Adelaide was hailed by a vessel, and the Yorkshireman, on looking overboard, was shocked to behold Mr. Jorrocks sitting in the stern of his hoy in the identical position he had taken up the previous day, with his bunch of sea-weed under his elbow, and the remains of the knuckle of veal, ham, and chicken, spread on the hamper before him.  “Stop her?” cried the Yorkshireman, and then hailing Mr. Jorrocks he holloaed out, “In the name of the prophet, Figs, what are you doing there?” “Oh, gentlemen! gentlemen!” exclaimed Mr. Jorrocks, brightening up as he recognised the boat, “take compassion on a most misfortunate indiwidual—­here have I been in this ’orrid ’oy, ever since three o’clock yesterday afternoon and here I seem likely to end my days—­for blow me tight if I couldn’t swim as fast as it goes.”  “Look sharp, then,” cried the mate of the steamer, “and chuck us up your luggage.”  Up went the sea-weed, the hamper, and Mr. Jorrocks; and before the hoyman awoke out of a nap, into which he had composed himself on resigning the rudder to his lad, our worthy citizen was steaming away a mile before his vessel, bilking him of his fare.