The next moment I am
back at my giddy badinage with the young ladies,
wakening laughter as I go, and leaving in my wake
applausive comments of "Isn't Mr. Dodd a funny
gentleman?" and "O, I think he's just too nice!"
An hour having passed in this airy manner, I start upon
my rounds afresh, with a bag full of coloured tickets,
all with pins attached, and all with legible
inscriptions: "Old Germany," "California," "True Love,"
"Old Fogies," "La Belle France," "Green Erin," "The
Land of Cakes," "Washington," "Blue Jay," "Robin Red-
Breast"--twenty of each denomination; for when it comes
to the luncheon we sit down by twenties. These are
distributed with anxious tact--for, indeed, this is the
most delicate part of my functions--but outwardly with
reckless unconcern, amidst the gayest flutter and
confusion; and are immediately after sported upon hats
and bonnets, to the extreme diffusion of cordiality,
total strangers hailing each other by "the number of
their mess"--so we humorously name it--and the deck
ringing with cries of, "Here, all Blue Jays to the
rescue!" or, "I say, am I alone in this blame' ship?
Ain't there no more Californians?"
By this time we are drawing near to the appointed spot.
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