o:

"This international occasion----"

"Our English cousins----"

"Hands across the sea----"

"Blood is thicker than water----"

Then comes a humourous story about an Englishman, an American, and an
Irishman, at which the English passengers laugh, having a tradition
that "you Yankees are such droll chaps!" The chairman now switches
quickly from the quasi-ridiculous to the pseudo-sublime, and works up to
his big moment, which has for its climax the table-pounding statement
that "the Anglo-Saxon race must and shall predominate!"

This is violently applauded by everybody but a Frenchman, who writhes
horribly and Fletcherises his handkerchief.

[Illustration: YOUR CAP GOES FLYING OVERBOARD; YOUR CIGAR IS BLOWN TO
SHREDS.]

When the applause is over, the entertainment begins with the
announcement that the Opera-Singer and the Polish Pianist are unable to
appear, owing to indisposition--which really means an ingrowing
disposition not to do so. They have, however, sent "liberal donations"
to the Fund. We then find that "we are nevertheless so fortunate as to
have with us to-night" a young actor. The Actor gives a serio-comic
recitation. But his encore is his _piece de resistance_. It proves to
be a vivid verse about marine disaster, a form of selection obviously
suited to the occasion. Where, except at a ship's concert, can one get
the full value of such lines as

"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stair--

By turning one's head only slightly, one can actually see the stair, all
ready for the captain. Suppose we hit a derelict at this very moment! We
might see the whole thing acted out!

After this recitation some one tries to play on the piano. In the middle
of the piece the ship gives an obliging lurch, but to no purpose; for,
though the performer slips off the stool, striking with his hands
something that sounds like the lost chord, and with his body two ladies
who are waiting for their turn, he is picked up and put back on the
stool to finish.

When he has done so, his rescuers spring blithely forward, one playing
the accompaniment very badly while the other renders "Araby." "Araby" is
always sung at a ship's concert. Likewise a young Englishman invariably
sings "The Powder Monkey."

The English have peculiar views on singing. Mere matters of voice and
ear make not the slightest difference to them. It is like going to war,
or playing on the flute: one can't refuse, I mean to