"Here, Frantz, you're a poet; get up and make a speech in honour of my noble sire."
Frantz Pettersen, a podgy little man with a big fair moustache, lifted his glass.
"Friends and brothers in Art, in the eternal realm of beauty! the halls wherein we live and move are bright and lofty, it is true, and our outlook is wide, unbounded. But let us not therefore forget the simple home of our youthful days, though it be never as poor and dry."
"Dry—what do you mean? It's not dry here, I hope?"
"My mistake. Dark, I should have said. Poor and dark.... Well, my friend, this noble fatherly soul, who a moment ago entered upon us like a vision from another world—a visitor from the lower regions, so to speak (Hear!)—him we acclaim, by all the gods of ancient myth, by the deities of the upper and the nether world—steady, boys—not to speak of this. And you, my fortunate young friend, whose lot it is to claim this exalted soul by the worthy name of father, rejoice with me at his presence among us in this hour. Do not your hearts beat high with thankfulness to the providence that has spared him to you so long? What says the poet (now what does he say, I wonder? Let me see). 'My father was a——' something or other. Anyhow, never mind. To come to the point, we, er—raise our glasses now in honour of this revered paterfamilias whose toil and thingummy in this materialistic world have crowned the work of his accomplished children. Skaal!"
The speech was received with general acclamation.
Holm was taken by surprise, and hardly knew what to say. He could hardly open the campaign at such a moment with a sermon; mechanically he took the glass offered him. But hardly had he touched it with his lips than he asked in astonishment:
"When—where on earth did you get hold of that Madeira? Let me look at the bottle. I thought as much. Tar and feather me, if they haven't gone and snaffled my '52 Madeira! Six bottles that I'd been keeping for my jubilee in the business—all gone, I suppose. Nice children, I must say!"
He sat down in an arm-chair, fanning himself with a handkerchief.
"These golden drops from the cellars of our revered friend and patron——" began Frantz sententiously.