Our vessel also changed its character with lightning rapidity.  It was in turn a ferry-boat—­imitation of passengers descending the gangway by rhythmical patting of hand on thwart; a hospital ship chased by a submarine—­cormorant’s neck and head naturally mistaken for periscope; a destroyer attacking a submarine—­said cormorant kindly obliging with quick diving act when approached; a food-ship laden with bananas represented by rushes culled from the banks; and a smuggler running cargoes of French wine contained in an elderly empty bottle discovered in the mud above high-water mark.  It was breathless work.

The disaster occurred when Betty, against my maturer judgment, insisted upon the exploration on foot of a mangrove swamp on the shore of a cannibal-infested South Sea island.  The immediate cause was a suddenly developed attachment on the part of one of Daddy’s sea-boots to the mud on the lake-side.  The twain refused to be parted, and the youthful explorer measured her length in the mire.

Generously overlooking my carelessness in not warning her that we were traversing a quicksand, Betty, rather shaken, very muddy and with a suspicion of tears in her voice, bound me by a blood-curdling nautical oath not to breathe a word of the mishap to Mummy, Daddy or Miss Watt, her governess.  The pledge having been given, Betty, the offending boots discarded, fled to her own room by way of the back-door.

It was then twelve o’clock, and in the hour that remained before luncheon I was fertile in excuses for Betty’s absence from the scene; in fact, the necessity for concealing the calamity quite marred what should have been a time of well-earned relaxation.

At last we sat down to the midday meal, and the members of the house-party began to relate their morning’s adventures.  Finally some thoughtless person said, “Well, Betty, and what mischief have you been up to?”

Betty, quite recovered and with a radiant smile, replied, “Oh, Mr. —­er and I had a scrumptious time on the lake.  We were sailors—­just sailors—­and did all sorts of lovely things, didn’t we, Mr. —­er?”

I agreed, and Betty went on to her peroration: 

“And at the very end Mr. —­er was a tiger and I was a little small boy, and he jumped on me out of the bushes and knocked me down in the mud” [O Betty!  O unjust sailor!], “and Miss Watt came in as I was changing my things.  It was splendid, wasn’t it—­Reggie?”

Per ardua ad astra. I had won my promotion to the commissioned ranks of the Christian names.

* * * * *

WIMMIN.

  Behind wi’ the sowin’,
    An’ rent-day to meet,
  For first time o’ knowin’
    John Buckham was beat;
  Torpedoed an’ swimmin’
    An’ fairly done in,
  When someone said, “Wimmin
    Would suit ye at Lynn.”

  Dal Midwood, at Mutcham,
    Who runs by old rules,
  Said, “John, don’t ’ee touch em—­
    A pa’sel o’ fules
  Aye dabbin’ an’ trimmin’
    Wi’ powder an’ pin;
  No, don’t ’ee have wimmin,
    John Buckham, at Lynn.”