I had arranged an elaborate menu. The mouths of the guests watered as they read it, and a confused murmur of pleasurable anticipation pervaded the supper-room. “By Jove, Carlton, old man, you’ve done the thing in style.” exclaimed one well-known comedian to me. “It must have cost a pretty penny.”
So it had, but not quite in the way he supposed. Here, however, is the menu. Let the reader judge for himself.
Hors d’œuvres.
Royal Natives.
Plovers’ Eggs. Melon Cantaloup.
Soups.
Real Turtle. Consommé Marie Stuart.
Fish.
Loch Tay Salmon. Filets de Sole Carlton.
Entrée.
Ortolans aux Raisins.
Joints.
Haunch of Venison. Saddle of Mutton.
Sweets.
Soufflé au curaçoa. Ice pudding.
Wines. Liqueurs. Coffee.
The proceedings were opened by Harry Tate, the chairman, who announced that all were to sing standing the “Beautiful Swells’ Anthem,” written by himself. It ran, as nearly as I can recollect, as follows:
Good evening, my beautiful swells,
My rollicking pippins as well;
My golden russet, my sweet-scented friend:
Is this the beginning or is it the end?
We’re just beginning to like you,
So lots of money we’ll spend.
Then join in this ditty,
And have a sweet nippy,
My piscatorial friend.
Chorus:
For we’re all getting older and older,
Older ev’ry day.
We’re all getting older and older,
Soon we’ll all be grey.
So if you want some wrinkles,
To keep you young and frisky,
Keep late hours and drink plenty of whisky.
Casey Jones got another papa,
Casey Jones, the Cunard Line.
Casey Jones got another papa,
Got another papa on the Cunard Line.
Pom-tiddly-om-pom! Pom—pom! pom!
This latter part of the ditty was emphasised by the banging of fists, knives, bottles, glasses, in fact, anything to make a noise; and the resultant din, as may be imagined, was terrific. So was the cheering at the end, and the general hilarity; but the latter was checked somewhat, so far at all events as regards the major part of the assembled guests, on seats being resumed, for these found that while they had been upstanding the waiters had deftly removed their beautifully printed menu cards, and had substituted in their place others not nearly so ornate and which read as follows:
Hors d’œuvres.
Very likely.
Soups.
If lucky.
Fish.
Very sorry it’s off.
Entrées.
Hard lines.
Joints.
You never can tell.
Sweets.
Perhaps.
Choice Wines.
I don’t think.
