Three Men in a Boat

Three Men in a Boat

by Vic Reeves

Over one hundred years after it was first published, Jerome K. Jerome's classic account of an eccentric journey up the Thames by rowing boat remains as popular as ever. The erratic progress of J., Harris, George and Montmorency the dog is peppered with hilarious and memorable incidents, such as the struggle with the pineapple tin and Harris's run-in with the swans.…  See more details below


Over one hundred years after it was first published, Jerome K. Jerome's classic account of an eccentric journey up the Thames by rowing boat remains as popular as ever. The erratic progress of J., Harris, George and Montmorency the dog is peppered with hilarious and memorable incidents, such as the struggle with the pineapple tin and Harris's run-in with the swans. Jerome's timeless comedy is brought vividly to life in this paperback classic edition through glorious colour illustrations that evoke the long, lazy days of one golden Victorian summer.

Editorial Reviews

From Michael Dirda's "LIBRARY WITHOUT WALLS" column on The Barnes & Noble Review

People don't often think of the Victorian era as a heyday of comic writing. Instead we commonly picture bearded patriarchs and their stiffly unsmiling helpmeets, remember the morally serious novels of George Eliot and the uplifting essays of Matthew Arnold, and hear, ringing in our mind's ear, Queen Victoria's dour comment: "We are not amused."

Nonetheless, the Victorians don't deserve their grim reputation. After all, the 19th century in England produced Dickens's Pickwick Papers, the operettas of Gilbert and Sullivan, and the wittiest comic drama in the English language -- "The Importance of Being Earnest" -- by the quickest wit of all time, Oscar Wilde. Somehow, too, we tend to forget such "children's" classics as Edward Lear's nonsense verse and Lewis Carroll's ever-fresh Alice in Wonderland. Less well known today, at least in the United States, are such beguiling period pieces as F. Anstey's Vice-Versa (1882), the original "Freaky Friday" tale of a businessman father and his schoolboy son who exchange minds, and The Diary of a Nobody (1892), by George and Weedon Grossmith, the very English comic masterpiece about the bumbling suburbanite Mr. Pooter and his family. It's never been out of print.

Nor has what is perhaps the greatest of all Victorian comic novels: Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!), by Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927). First published in 1889, this serenely silly account of a summer boating holiday on the Thames is just the book for the winter doldrums. Its admirers are legion and include such unexpected folk as the science fiction eminences Robert A. Heinlein (who cites the book throughout Have Spacesuit, Will Travel) and Connie Willis, whose comic time-travel novel To Say Nothing of the Dog pays homage to Jerome's youthful masterpiece.

Three Men in a Boat opens with George, Harris and J talking about how seedy they've all been feeling. J admits that he is frequently out of sorts:

"It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with, in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt."

Just recently, a liver-pill circular has convinced him that there's something wrong with his liver, especially since one of the symptoms is "a general disinclination to work of any kind." His own disinclination to work, J explains, has been a lifelong affliction:

"What I suffer in that way no tongue can tell. From my earliest infancy I have been a martyr to it. As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for a day. They did not know, then, that it was my liver. Medical science was in a far less advanced state than now, and they used to put it down to laziness."

Before long, the three young men -- to say nothing of the dog Montmorency -- have decided they need a holiday. What could be better than to rent a boat and row merrily up the Thames toward Oxford! They duly provide themselves with a tent roof for the skiff, camping gear, and baskets of provisions. And from the first, they suffer one light-hearted comic disaster after another. Meals, for example, prove to be uncommonly difficult: when the trio land on Monkey Island for a picnic of cold beef, they realize that they have failed to pack any mustard:

"It cast a gloom over the boat, there being no mustard. We ate our beef in silence. Existence seemed hollow and uninteresting. We thought of the happy days of childhood, and sighed. We brightened up a bit, however, over the apple-tart, and, when George drew out a tin of pineapple from the bottom of the hamper, and rolled it into the middle of the boat, we felt that life was worth living after all."

Needless to say, they have forgotten to bring a can opener. Their vain attempts to open the tin of pineapple nearly result in George's death, while Harris gets off with just a flesh wound.

It doesn't take the reader long to sense the distinctive narrative rhythm of Three Men in a Boat. In each chapter Jerome describes the progress of the holiday thus far, repeatedly soaring into exuberant tongue-in-cheek paeans to the wonders of Nature or the glories of the river, before noting some oddity or detail that inevitably calls to mind an incident from the past, such as Uncle Podger's attempt to hang a picture or George's efforts to gain proficiency on the bagpipes. "There is, it must be confessed, something very sad about the early efforts of an amateur in bagpipes."

Such understatement, at once wry and deadpan, characterizes much of the book's humor. For instance, J recalls one young man out punting, who was poling along grandly:

 "And it would all have gone on being grand if he had not unfortunately, while looking round to enjoy the scenery, taken just one step more than there was any necessity for, and walked off the punt altogether. The pole was firmly fixed in the mud, and he was left clinging to it while the punt drifted away. . . His expression as the pole slowly sank with him I shall never forget; there was so much thought in it."

Periodically, however, one or other of the three friends reflects more seriously about life. Work is a recurrent theme: "It always does seem to me," complains J, "that I am doing more work than I should do. It is not that I object to the work, mind you; I like work; it fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours." Later he qualifies this somewhat: "I can't sit still and see another man slaving and working. I want to get up and superintend, and walk round with my hands in my pockets, and tell him what to do. It is my energetic nature. I can't help it."

Not every page of Three Men in a Boat remains funny, and the discovery of a young woman's body floating in the river comes as a shock. Now and again, too, a hint of melancholy creeps into the book. One night J reflects on ghosts and revenants, before ending with this whistle in the dark: "Let us gather together in the great cities, and light huge bonfires of a million gas-jets, and shout and sing together and feel brave."

As it happens, Jerome himself went on to write many ghost stories and weird tales. (The fullest collection of these is the Ash-Tree Press compilation, City of the Sea and Other Ghost Stories, edited by Jessica Amanda Salmonson.) Those in Told after Supper (1891) are wryly humorous, with delightfully macabre illustrations by Kenneth M. Skeaping, but others are much darker. Perhaps Jerome's most famous are "The Dancing Master" -- about a lifesized automaton that is taught to waltz -- and the eerie psychological chiller, "The Woman of the Saeter," about a young couple spending a holiday in a lonely cabin in Norway. The locals shun the place, and speak only with fear of "the woman of the saeter." The tale becomes a true ghost story: the dead are not really dead and the past reaches out to envelop the living.

Jerome's wide-ranging career included far more than short fiction: he was, in fact, a man of letters, an important literary editor, a popular dramatist (especially for the religious melodrama "The Passing of the Third Floor Back") and an exceptionally winning autobiographer. His low-keyed wit leaps forth from his very first book, On the Stage -- and Off (1885): "There comes a time in every one's life when he feels he was born to be an actor. . . . I was at the theatre one evening seeing Romeo and Juliet played, when it suddenly flashed across me that that was my vocation. I thought all acting was making love in tights to pretty women, and I determined to devote my life to it." Jerome's next book, The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow (1886), collects some of his best essays. At one point in "On Idleness" he imagines himself taking a seaside rest cure:

I should get up late, sip chocolate, and have my breakfast in slippers and a dressing-gown. I should lie out in the garden in a hammock, and read sentimental novels with a melancholy ending, until the book would fall from my listless hand, and I should recline there, dreamily gazing into the deep blue of the firmament, watching the fleecy clouds, floating like white-sailed ships, across its depths, and listening to the joyous song of the birds, and the low rustling of the trees. Or, when I became too weak to go out of doors, I should sit propped up with pillows, at the open window of the ground floor front, and look wasted and interesting, so that all the pretty girls would sigh as they passed by.

After the success of Three Men in a Boat, Jerome was eventually led to write a sequel, in which he depicted his three friends in later life. Two are married, one is a confirmed bachelor, but all of them feel a need to escape from their regular routines. Three Men on the Bummel (1900) -- retitled Three Men on Wheels in America -- relates their bicycle trip through Germany. The first half is especially amusing. But Jerome's second great masterpiece is really his last book, My Life and Times (1926). It is one of the most entrancing memoirs I know.

Jerome didn't come from a privileged background. His father had been a clergymen who invested wildly and badly, such that Jerome was forced to leave school as a teenager and grow up in the roughest parts of East London. As he writes, "It was these surroundings in which I passed my childhood that gave to me, I suppose, my melancholy, brooding disposition. I can see the humorous side of things and enjoy the fun when it comes; but look where I will, there seems to me always more sadness than joy in life."

After leaving school at 14, Jerome obtained a clerkship in the London & Northwestern Railway in Euston. "It was during this period," he tells us, that "I set myself to learn the vices. My study of literature had impressed it upon me that without them one was a milksop, to be despised of all true men, and more especially of all fair women." Before too long, Jerome had sunk even further and was on the stage: "I have played every part in Hamlet except Ophelia." One day, though, he met a friend who had taken to journalism and soon he, too, was contributing articles to the papers. By inserting humor into his stories he discovered that "sub-editors would give to mine a preference over more sober, and possibly more truthful records." Meanwhile, he was writing stories, plays, essays. "But it was years before anything came of it."

When he did publish his first books, some of the critics were shocked by his supposed vulgarity. On the Stage -- and Off was denounced as rubbish, but three years later the same critics, "reviewing my next book, The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow, regretted that an author who had written such an excellent first book should have followed it up by so unworthy a successor." During this time Jerome began to work for several magazines and gradually came to know all the popular writers of his time, including Swinburne, Bret Harte (who was then living in England) and J. M. Barrie, as well as Israel Zwangwill "who discovered that Shakespeare's plays had all been written by another gentlemen of the same name," and W. W. Jacobs, author of "The Monkey's Paw." He tells us that H. G. Wells "was a shy, diffident young man in those days; Rider Haggard a somewhat solemn gentleman, taking himself always very seriously." In contrast, Arthur Conan Doyle "would sit at a small desk in a corner of his own drawing-room, writing a story, while a dozen people round about him were talking and laughing. He preferred it to being alone in his study. Sometimes, without looking up from his work, he would make a remark, showing he must have been listening to our conversation; but his pen had never ceased moving."

After he became the editor of the satirical magazine The Idler and later of To-Day, Jerome learned that he could tell within twenty lines if a manuscript were any good. At one point he owned an old farmhouse in the country: "I remember reading there one night the manuscript of Wells's Island of Doctor Moreau. It had come into the office just as I was leaving; and I had slipped it into my bag. I wished I had not begun it; but I could not put it down. The wind was howling like the seven furies; but above it I could hear the shrieking of the tortured beasts. I was glad when the dawn came." In looking back, he judges Eden Phillpotts to be the greatest novelist of the era, after Thomas Hardy. (Who now reads Phillpotts? Are we missing out?)

Jerome wasn't just an admirable writer, he was -- a far rarer thing -- an admirable man. While on a lecture tour of the United States, he stopped in Chattanooga for a talk and ended it by assailing racial prejudice, insisting that the treatment of Negroes "calls to Heaven for redress. . . . Shunned, hated, despised, they have not the rights of a dog. From no white man dare they even defend the honour of their women. I have seen them waiting at the ticket offices, the gibe and butt of the crowd, not venturing to approach till the last white man was served. I have known a woman in the pains of childbirth made to travel in the cattle wagon. For no injury at the hands of any white man is there any redress. American justice is not colour blind. Will the wrong never end?"

At the age of 55, too old to serve in the British Army during the First World War, Jerome joined the French ambulance service. His life there makes the experience of the truck drivers in "The Wages of Fear" seem like a Sunday drive in the park. At Verdun, almost flattened by artillery, he passes a shop in which "were two canaries in their cage, starved to death, a little heap of feathers that fell to pieces when I touched them." He ends this chapter by recommending that "Those who talk about war being a game ought to be made to go out and play it." He himself carried away no illusions about the war to end all wars. "The one thing certain is that mankind remains a race of low intelligence and evil instincts."

The last chapter of My Life and Times describes Jerome's religious faith as a child, followed by its loss when still a youngster: after recalling the story of mankind's exile from Eden over the eating of an apple, he writes: "To me it seemed that Adam, and with him the entire human race, had been treated with undue severity, to say the very least of it." In the end, though, he concludes with a statement of cautious faith. "It is not our sins that will drag us down, but our want of will to fight against them. It is from the struggle, not the victory, that we gain strength." Still, whatever one's belief, it's hard to disagree with Jerome when he says, "I have noticed that trouble invariably follows when God appears to be interesting Himself in foreign politics."

Jerome K. Jerome died of a cerebral hemorrhage in 1927. Today he is remembered almost solely for Three Men in a Boat, consistently and deservedly judged one of the most amusing novels of all time. But once you've read or reread it, be sure to try some of Jerome's other books, in particular My Life and Times. You're in for a treat.

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Random House UK
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Three Men in a Boat

By Jerome K. Jerome


Copyright © 2014 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7216-1


Three invalids.—Sufferings of George and Harris.—A victim to one hundred and seven fatal maladies.—Useful prescriptions.—Cure for liver complaint in children.—We agree that we are overworked, and need rest.—A week on the rolling deep?—George suggests the River.—Montmorency lodges an objection.—Original motion carried by majority of three to one.

There were four of us—George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were—bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course.

We were all feeling seedy, and we were getting quite nervous about it. Harris said he felt such extraordinary fits of giddiness come over him at times, that he hardly knew what he was doing; and then George said that he had fits of giddiness too, and hardly knew what he was doing. With me, it was my liver that was out of order. I knew it was my liver that was out of order, because I had just been reading a patent liver-pill circular, in which were detailed the various symptoms by which a man could tell when his liver was out of order. I had them all.

It is a most extraordinary thing, but I never read a patent medicine advertisement without being impelled to the conclusion that I am suffering from the particular disease therein dealt with in its most virulent form. The diagnosis seems in every case to correspond exactly with all the sensations that I have ever felt.

I remember going to the British Museum one day to read up the treatment for some slight ailment of which I had a touch—hay fever, I fancy it was. I got down the book, and read all I came to read; and then, in an unthinking moment, I idly turned the leaves, and began to indolently study diseases, generally. I forget which was the first distemper I plunged into—some fearful, devastating scourge, I know—and, before I had glanced half down the list of "premonitory symptoms," it was borne in upon me that I had fairly got it.

I sat for awhile, frozen with horror; and then, in the listlessness of despair, I again turned over the pages. I came to typhoid fever—read the symptoms—discovered that I had typhoid fever, must have had it for months without knowing it—wondered what else I had got; turned up St. Vitus's Dance—found, as I expected, that I had that too—began to get interested in my case, and determined to sift it to the bottom, and so started alphabetically—read up ague, and learnt that I was sickening for it, and that the acute stage would commence in about another fortnight. Bright's disease, I was relieved to find, I had only in a modified form, and, so far as that was concerned, I might live for years. Cholera I had, with severe complications; and diphtheria I seemed to have been born with. I plodded conscientiously through the twenty-six letters, and the only malady I could conclude I had not got was housemaid's knee.

I felt rather hurt about this at first; it seemed somehow to be a sort of slight. Why hadn't I got housemaid's knee? Why this invidious reservation? After a while, however, less grasping feelings prevailed. I reflected that I had every other known malady in the pharmacology, and I grew less selfish, and determined to do without housemaid's knee. Gout, in its most malignant stage, it would appear, had seized me without my being aware of it; and zymosis I had evidently been suffering with from boyhood. There were no more diseases after zymosis, so I concluded there was nothing else the matter with me.

I sat and pondered. I thought what an interesting case I must be from a medical point of view, what an acquisition I should be to a class! Students would have no need to "walk the hospitals," if they had me. I was a hospital in myself. All they need do would be to walk round me, and, after that, take their diploma.

Then I wondered how long I had to live. I tried to examine myself. I felt my pulse. I could not at first feel any pulse at all. Then, all of a sudden, it seemed to start off. I pulled out my watch and timed it. I made it a hundred and forty-seven to the minute. I tried to feel my heart. I could not feel my heart. It had stopped beating. I have since been induced to come to the opinion that it must have been there all the time, and must have been beating, but I cannot account for it. I patted myself all over my front, from what I call my waist up to my head, and I went a bit round each side, and a little way up the back. But I could not feel or hear anything. I tried to look at my tongue. I stuck it out as far as ever it would go, and I shut one eye, and tried to examine it with the other. I could only see the tip, and the only thing that I could gain from that was to feel more certain than before that I had scarlet fever.

I had walked into that reading-room a happy, healthy man. I crawled out a decrepit wreck.

I went to my medical man. He is an old chum of mine, and feels my pulse, and looks at my tongue, and talks about the weather, all for nothing, when I fancy I'm ill; so I thought I would do him a good turn by going to him now. "What a doctor wants," I said, "is practice. He shall have me. He will get more practice out of me than out of seventeen hundred of your ordinary, commonplace patients, with only one or two diseases each." So I went straight up and saw him, and he said:

"Well, what's the matter with you?"

I said:

"I will not take up your time, dear boy, with telling you what is the matter with me. Life is brief, and you might pass away before I had finished. But I will tell you what is not the matter with me. I have not got housemaid's knee. Why I have not got housemaid's knee, I cannot tell you; but the fact remains that I have not got it. Everything else, however, I have got."

And I told him how I came to discover it all.

Then he opened me and looked down me, and clutched hold of my wrist, and then he hit me over the chest when I wasn't expecting it—a cowardly thing to do, I call it—and immediately afterwards butted me with the side of his head. After that, he sat down and wrote out a prescription, and folded it up and gave it me, and I put it in my pocket and went out.

I did not open it. I took it to the nearest chemist's, and handed it in. The man read it, and then handed it back.

He said he didn't keep it.

I said:

"You are a chemist?"

He said:

"I am a chemist. If I was a co-operative stores and family hotel combined, I might be able to oblige you. Being only a chemist hampers me."

I read the prescription. It ran:

"1 lb. beefsteak, with 1 pt. bitter beer every 6 hours.

1 ten-mile walk every morning.

1 bed at 11 sharp every night.

And don't stuff up your head with things you don't understand."

I followed the directions, with the happy result—speaking for myself—that my life was preserved, and is still going on.

In the present instance, going back to the liver-pill circular, I had the symptoms, beyond all mistake, the chief among them being "a general disinclination to work of any kind."

What I suffer in that way no tongue can tell. From my earliest infancy I have been a martyr to it. As a boy, the disease hardly ever left me for a day. They did not know, then, that it was my liver. Medical science was in a far less advanced state than now, and they used to put it down to laziness.

"Why, you skulking little devil, you," they would say, "get up and do something for your living, can't you?"—not knowing, of course, that I was ill.

And they didn't give me pills; they gave me clumps on the side of the head. And, strange as it may appear, those clumps on the head often cured me—for the time being. I have known one clump on the head have more effect upon my liver, and make me feel more anxious to go straight away then and there, and do what was wanted to be done, without further loss of time, than a whole box of pills does now.

You know, it often is so—those simple, old-fashioned remedies are sometimes more efficacious than all the dispensary stuff.

We sat there for half-an-hour, describing to each other our maladies. I explained to George and William Harris how I felt when I got up in the morning, and William Harris told us how he felt when he went to bed; and George stood on the hearth-rug, and gave us a clever and powerful piece of acting, illustrative of how he felt in the night.

George fancies he is ill; but there's never anything really the matter with him, you know.

At this point, Mrs. Poppets knocked at the door to know if we were ready for supper. We smiled sadly at one another, and said we supposed we had better try to swallow a bit. Harris said a little something in one's stomach often kept the disease in check; and Mrs. Poppets brought the tray in, and we drew up to the table, and toyed with a little steak and onions, and some rhubarb tart.

I must have been very weak at the time; because I know, after the first half-hour or so, I seemed to take no interest whatever in my food—an unusual thing for me—and I didn't want any cheese.

This duty done, we refilled our glasses, lit our pipes, and resumed the discussion upon our state of health. What it was that was actually the matter with us, we none of us could be sure of; but the unanimous opinion was that it—whatever it was—had been brought on by overwork.

"What we want is rest," said Harris.

"Rest and a complete change," said George. "The overstrain upon our brains has produced a general depression throughout the system. Change of scene, and absence of the necessity for thought, will restore the mental equilibrium."

George has a cousin, who is usually described in the charge-sheet as a medical student, so that he naturally has a somewhat family-physicianary way of putting things.

I agreed with George, and suggested that we should seek out some retired and old-world spot, far from the madding crowd, and dream away a sunny week among its drowsy lanes—some half-forgotten nook, hidden away by the fairies, out of reach of the noisy world—some quaint-perched eyrie on the cliffs of Time, from whence the surging waves of the nineteenth century would sound far-off and faint.

Harris said he thought it would be humpy. He said he knew the sort of place I meant; where everybody went to bed at eight o'clock, and you couldn't get a Referee for love or money, and had to walk ten miles to get your baccy.

"No," said Harris, "if you want rest and change, you can't beat a sea trip."

I objected to the sea trip strongly. A sea trip does you good when you are going to have a couple of months of it, but, for a week, it is wicked.

You start on Monday with the idea implanted in your bosom that you are going to enjoy yourself. You wave an airy adieu to the boys on shore, light your biggest pipe, and swagger about the deck as if you were Captain Cook, Sir Francis Drake, and Christopher Columbus all rolled into one. On Tuesday, you wish you hadn't come. On Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, you wish you were dead. On Saturday, you are able to swallow a little beef tea, and to sit up on deck, and answer with a wan, sweet smile when kind-hearted people ask you how you feel now. On Sunday, you begin to walk about again, and take solid food. And on Monday morning, as, with your bag and umbrella in your hand, you stand by the gunwale, waiting to step ashore, you begin to thoroughly like it.

I remember my brother-in-law going for a short sea trip once, for the benefit of his health. He took a return berth from London to Liverpool; and when he got to Liverpool, the only thing he was anxious about was to sell that return ticket.

It was offered round the town at a tremendous reduction, so I am told; and was eventually sold for eighteenpence to a bilious-looking youth who had just been advised by his medical men to go to the sea-side, and take exercise.

"Sea-side!" said my brother-in-law, pressing the ticket affectionately into his hand; "why, you'll have enough to last you a lifetime; and as for exercise! why, you'll get more exercise, sitting down on that ship, than you would turning somersaults on dry land."

He himself—my brother-in-law—came back by train. He said the North-Western Railway was healthy enough for him.

Another fellow I knew went for a week's voyage round the coast, and, before they started, the steward came to him to ask whether he would pay for each meal as he had it, or arrange beforehand for the whole series.

The steward recommended the latter course, as it would come so much cheaper. He said they would do him for the whole week at two pounds five. He said for breakfast there would be fish, followed by a grill. Lunch was at one, and consisted of four courses. Dinner at six—soup, fish, entree, joint, poultry, salad, sweets, cheese, and dessert. And a light meat supper at ten.

My friend thought he would close on the two-pound-five job (he is a hearty eater), and did so.

Lunch came just as they were off Sheerness. He didn't feel so hungry as he thought he should, and so contented himself with a bit of boiled beef, and some strawberries and cream. He pondered a good deal during the afternoon, and at one time it seemed to him that he had been eating nothing but boiled beef for weeks, and at other times it seemed that he must have been living on strawberries and cream for years.

Neither the beef nor the strawberries and cream seemed happy, either—seemed discontented like.

At six, they came and told him dinner was ready. The announcement aroused no enthusiasm within him, but he felt that there was some of that two-pound-five to be worked off, and he held on to ropes and things and went down. A pleasant odour of onions and hot ham, mingled with fried fish and greens, greeted him at the bottom of the ladder; and then the steward came up with an oily smile, and said:

"What can I get you, sir?"

"Get me out of this," was the feeble reply.

And they ran him up quick, and propped him up, over to leeward, and left him.

For the next four days he lived a simple and blameless life on thin captain's biscuits (I mean that the biscuits were thin, not the captain) and soda-water; but, towards Saturday, he got uppish, and went in for weak tea and dry toast, and on Monday he was gorging himself on chicken broth. He left the ship on Tuesday, and as it steamed away from the landing-stage he gazed after it regretfully.

"There she goes," he said, "there she goes, with two pounds' worth of food on board that belongs to me, and that I haven't had."

He said that if they had given him another day he thought he could have put it straight. So I set my face against the sea trip. Not, as I explained, upon my own account. I was never queer. But I was afraid for George. George said he should be all right, and would rather like it, but he would advise Harris and me not to think of it, as he felt sure we should both be ill. Harris said that, to himself, it was always a mystery how people managed to get sick at sea—said he thought people must do it on purpose, from affectation—said he had often wished to be, but had never been able.

Then he told us anecdotes of how he had gone across the Channel when it was so rough that the passengers had to be tied into their berths, and he and the captain were the only two living souls on board who were not ill. Sometimes it was he and the second mate who were not ill; but it was generally he and one other man. If not he and another man, then it was he by himself.

It is a curious fact, but nobody ever is sea-sick—on land. At sea, you come across plenty of people very bad indeed, whole boat-loads of them; but I never met a man yet, on land, who had ever known at all what it was to be sea-sick. Where the thousands upon thousands of bad sailors that swarm in every ship hide themselves when they are on land is a mystery.

If most men were like a fellow I saw on the Yarmouth boat one day, I could account for the seeming enigma easily enough. It was just off Southend Pier, I recollect, and he was leaning out through one of the port-holes in a very dangerous position. I went up to him to try and save him.

"Hi! come further in," I said, shaking him by the shoulder. "You'll be overboard."

"Oh my! I wish I was," was the only answer I could get; and there I had to leave him.


Excerpted from Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. Copyright © 2014 Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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