I was spendin’ a day or two down in Essex with my old friend, Captain Bolter, South ’Ampstead Artillery. Dear old Tom—great favourite with the gals. Excuse my humour.
Lady Twombley, Imogen, Lady Euphemia Vibart, Sir Julian Twombley, Lady Macphail, and Dowager.
[Quietly to the shooters.] Good-bye.
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
It was wild-fowl Tom and I were after. We were lyin’ in a ditch waitin’ for the ducks to drift in with the tide. [As Lebanon continues his story all the others gradually and quietly disperse.] I counted fifty-seven birds through my glass. So said I to Tom, “Tom, I’m in dooced good form, my boy.” “Devil you are!” said Tom. “And I lay you a pony to a penny that fifteen of those birds fall to my gun.” “Done!” said Tom. [He is now alone in the room.] Well, to make a short story a long one—excuse my humour—Tom sneezed. Up I got. So did the ducks. And then what the dooce d’ye think ’appened? I say, what the dooce d’ye think—— [Discovering that he is alone.] Well, I’m—— Chatty, ain’t they? Chatty!
[Mrs. Gaylustre enters.]
Mrs. Gaylustre.
Jo! why aren’t you with the shooters?
Mr. Joseph Lebanon.
Why! They hooked it while I was tellin ’em the tale of Tom Bolter and the ducks.