If the
water is not in a violent humour, the Rover enjoys his humble
breakfast about nine. He tries kidneys, bloaters, brawn, and other
rude fare; he never uses a gold coffee-pot--humble silver suffices;
and even the urn is made of cheap metal. At eleven the hardy fellow
recruits his strength with a simple draught of champagne, for which he
never pays more than twelve pounds a dozen, and then four stalwart
seamen row him to the landing-place. He criticises the mighty ocean
from the balcony of the club until the middle of the afternoon, and
then he prepares for a desperate deed of daring. The Rover goes to the
landing-place and scans the gulf that yawns between him and his
vessel. Two hundred yards at least must be covered before the Rover
can bound on to the deck of his taut craft. Two hundred yards! And
there is a current that might almost sweep a tea-chest out to sea! But
the Rover's steady eye takes in the whole view, and his very nautical
mind enables him to lay plans with wisdom. He looks sternly at his gig
with the four stout oarsmen; his simple carpets are all right; his
cushions, his pillows, his cigar-box, his silken rudder-lines are all
as they should be.
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