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Updated: May 4, 2025
"Old man!" cried Sir Hurricane, losing his placidity a little. "Yes, old man; look at your hair as grey as a goose's." "Why, as for my hair, that proves nothing, Mrs Jellybag, for though there may be snow on the mountains there is still heat in the valleys. What d'ye think of my metaphor?"
One, whose name was Jellico, but who was more generally called by his companions Jellybag, was among them. Some of my readers may wonder what is meant by a "Portuguese man-of-war," and think that, notwithstanding the daring of British seamen, we were bound on rather a hazardous expedition, in attempting to attack one in a jolly-boat.
The admiral, who prided himself in putting any one who applied to him on what he called the wrong scent, endeavoured to play off Mrs Jellybag in the same manner. "What have I done to your cat, my dear Mrs Jellybag?
We had not rowed many strokes before one of the Physalia was observed floating by, its back ornamented with a fringe tinted with light-blue, delicate sea-green, and crimson. "I'll have it," exclaimed Jellybag, leaning over the bows and grasping hold of it, regardless of the injury he was inflicting.
The admiral, who prided himself in putting any one who applied to him on what he called the wrong scent, endeavoured to play off Mrs Jellybag in the same manner. "What have I done to your cat, my dear Mrs Jellybag? Why, my dear madam," said he, assuming an air of surprise, "what should I do to your cat?"
Some of the passengers tried to persuade Jellybag that it was caused by the ends of cigars, and the ashes of tobacco-pipes, thrown overboard from a fleet ahead. It no doubt arises from the quantity of dead animal matter, with which the sea water is loaded.
These words were hardly uttered, when, as if by preconcerted arrangement, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs Jellybag, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, somewhere in the latitude of fifty-five or sixty years. With a low courtesy and contemptuous toss of her head, she addressed Sir Hurricane Humbug. "Pray, Sir Hurricane, what have you been doing to my cat?"
Mrs Jellybag was a faithful servant, and our host neither liked that she should be interfered with, or that his house should become an arena for such conflicts; and the admiral, who was peculiarly tenacious of undrawing the strings of his purse, found it convenient to make the first advances.
These words were scarcely uttered, when, as if by preconcerted arrangement, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs Jellybag, the housekeeper, an elderly woman somewhere in the latitude of fifty-five or sixty years. With a low courtesy and contemptuous toss of her head, she addressed Sir Hurricane Humbug. "Pray, Sir Hurricane, what have you been doing to my cat?"
"Old man!" cried Sir Hurricane, losing his placidity a little. "Yes, old man; look at your hair as grey as a goose's." "Why, as for my hair, that proves nothing, Mrs Jellybag, for though there may be snow on the mountains, there is still heat in the valleys. What d'ye think of my metaphor?"
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