A few days after M'Foy quitted the ship, we all had leave from the first
lieutenant to go to Portsdown fair, but he would only allow the oldsters
to sleep on shore. We anticipated so much pleasure from our excursion,
that some of us were up early enough to go away in the boat sent for
fresh beef. This was very foolish. There were no carriages to take us to
the fair, nor indeed any fair so early in the morning; the shops were
all shut, and the Blue Posts, where we always rendezvoused, was hardly
opened. We waited there in the coffee-room, until we were driven out by
the maid sweeping away the dirt, and were forced to walk about until she
had finished, and lighted the fire, when we ordered our breakfast; but
how much better would it have been to have taken our breakfast
comfortably on board, and then to have come on shore, especially as we
had no money to spare. Next to being too late, being too soon is the
worst plan in the world. However, we had our breakfast, and paid the
bill; then we sallied forth, and went up George-street, where we found
all sorts of vehicles ready to take us to the fair. We got into one
which they called a dilly. I asked the man who drove it why it was so
called, and he replied, because he only charged a shilling. O'Brien, who
had joined us after breakfasting on board, said that this answer
reminded him of one given to him by a man who attended the hackney-coach
stands in London. "Pray," said he, "why are you called Waterman?"
"Waterman," replied the man, "vy, sir, 'cause we opens the hackney-coach
doors.
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