Speaking of telegraphing, I will relate an anecdote here, if you will
wait until I mend my pen. I had landed at Greenwich wharf on duty--this
was the nearest point of communication between Port Royal and the
Admiral's Pen--where, finding the flag lieutenant, he drove me up in his
ketureen to lunch. While we were regaling ourselves, the old signalman
came into the piazza, and with several most remarkable obeisances, gave
us to know that there were flags hoisted on the signalmast, at the
mountain settlement, of which he could make nothing, the uppermost was
neither the interrogative, the affirmative, nor the negative, nor in
fact any thing that with the book he could make sense of.
"Odd enough," said the lieutenant; "hand me the glass," and he peered
away for half a minute. "Confound me if I can make heads or tails of it
either; there, Cringle, what do you think? How do you construe it?"
I took the telescope. Uppermost there was hoisted on the signal mast a
large tablecloth, not altogether immaculate, and under it a towel, as I
guessed, for it was too opaque for bunting, and too white, although I
could not affirm that it was fresh out of the fold either.
"I am puzzled," said I, as I spied away again. Meanwhile there was no
acknowledgment made at our semaphore--"There, down they go," I continued
"Why, it must be a mistake, Stop, here's a new batch going up above the
green trees--There goes the tablecloth once more, and the towel, and
deuce take me, if I can compare the lowermost to any thing but a
dishclout--why, it must be a dishclout.
Pages:
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361