In a tremulous voice that made the words uttered sound more ridiculous than they otherwise would, the cadet on the table said, “O moon, how splendid you are! How beautiful you look! And you light up the night! You are full sometimes, and then you shine bright!”
“Any fool knows that,” interrupted the head of the room, whom I had called Foxey. “Don’t tell us what we know; tell us something original!”
“O moon?” continued the cadet in the same tremulous voice; “with a face in you, you are not made of green cheese! And you shine by night, and are not seen by day!”
“That’s a lie!” said Foxey. “The moon can be seen by day, and you are trying to deceive us poor mortals! I’m not going to remain quiet, and hear the moon slandered in that way! You must have a boot at your head for that!”
A boot was here hurled at the cadet by Foxey, which seemed by the sound to have struck the mark, and also, from certain sniffling sounds, to have added to the grief of the orator. “Go on!” said Foxey. “O moon!—”
“If you commence ‘O moon!’ again, I’ll hurl another boot at you!” said Foxey.
“Lovely moon!” continued the cadet. “Lovely moon!—I don’t know what more to say, please.”
“You’re an idiot!” said Foxey; “and if you don’t write out an ode for to-morrow night, I’ll give you another licking! Now where’s the last-joined neux, Shepard? Now then, up on the table and sing a song!” I climbed onto the table, and hesitated a moment as to which song I should sing.
“Look sharp, sir,” said Foxey, “or you’ll have a boot at you! I’m going to teach you manners.”
At this warning I at once commenced the “Bay of Biscay,” and sang it through without a mistake.