"What is it?" asks the Confused Captain, looking up from his MS.

"'Padding,'" I reply--"Only add a 'ton' to it, and that will give it
just the weight I require. Don't you see?" I ask him, impetuously.
But he merely shakes his head, and lugs at his moustache. I explain
the idea, as if it were a charade. I say, "The whole notion is
'padding--ton.' See?"

The Ruminating Reader thinks it won't do. "Yes it will," I urge--"it
will lighten it up. Who wants statistics without anecdote? Now
for an anecdote; and I knock one off, _sur le champ_, about the
engine-driver, the stoker, and several other persons, all on the
look-out for promotion, informing me of their being _Paddington men
of considerable political influence at home_. The Cautious Captain
accepts the anecdote, interpolates it, and after I have called for and
imbibed another tumbler of 'my own partik,' and lighted another cigar,
the Conscientious Captain resumes his entertainment."

NO PIANO.

He reads on. Another drink, just to rivet my attention. Will he take
something? No? Then _I_ will. His health, and song--I mean 'treatise,'
or whatever he calls it--say 'lecture.' Wish we'd had a piano. Never
will travel without one again. _Mem._--Gong and piano. I don't pretend
to be a thorough musician, but as a one-fingered player I'd give Sir
CHARLES HALLÉ odds and beat him. Now then--let's see where were we.
Another tumbler iced. Good. _Allez!_ Captain, go ahead!

[Illustration]