or old lady the
other day that was indooced by a young nephy to send a telegraphic
message to her husband in Manchester--she bein' in London. She was very
unwillin' to do it, bein' half inclined to regard the telegraph as a
plant from the lower regions. The message sent was, `Your lovin' wife
hopes you'll be home to-morrow.' It reached the husband, `Your lowerin'
wife hopes you'll be hung to-morrow.' Bad writin' and a useless
flourish at the _e_ turned _home_ into _hung_. The puzzled husband
telegraphs in reply, `Mistake somewhere--all right--shall be back three
o'clock--to-morrow--kind love.' And how d'ye think this reached the old
lady?--`Mistake somewhere--all night--stabbed in back--through cloak--
two more rows--killed, love.' Now, d'you call _that_ successful
telegraphing?"

"Not very," admitted Robin, with a laugh, "but of the thousands of
messages that pass to and fro daily there cannot be many like these, I
should think."

"But what did the poor wife do?" asked Madge anxiously.

"Do?" repeated Rik indignantly, as though the misfortune were his own--
for he was a very sympathetic captain--"do? Why, she gave a yell that
nigh knocked the young nephy out of his reason, and fell flat on the
floor. When she came to, she bounced up, bore away for the railway
station under full sail, an' shipped for Manchester, where she found her
husband, alive and hearty, pitchin' into a huge beefsteak, which he very
properly said, after recovering from his first surprise, was big enough
for two."

"But what objection have you to steamers, uncle Rik?" asked Mrs Wright;
"I'm sure they are very comfortable and fast-going."

"Comfortable and fast-goin'!" repeated the old sailor, with a look of
supreme contempt, "yes, they're comfortable enough when your berth ain't
near the paddles or the boilers; an' they're fast-goin', no doubt,
specially when they bu'st. But ain't the nasty things made of iron--
like kitchen kettles? and won't that rust? an' if you knock a hole in
'em won't they go down at once? an' if you clap too much on the
safety-valves won't they go up at once? Bah! pooh!--there's nothin'
like the wooden walls of old England. You may take the word of an old
salt for it,--them wooden walls will float and plough the ocean when all
these new-fangled iron pots are sunk or blowed to atoms. Why, look at
the Great Eastern herself, the biggest kettle of 'em all, what a
precious mess _she_ made of herself! At first sh