Truth, stern truth, will not be denied.
"This old trout" bellowed Sir Henry Merrivale, snatching the weapon from Martin's hands, "thinks we stuck her in the behind with a halberd."
The meek little man with the white moustache, appearing at H.M.'s elbow, tapped him softly on the shoulder.
"No, no, no!" he protested. "No, no, no, no!"
H.M. turned round an empurpled visage.
"What d'ye mean, no?" he thundered. "Didn't you hear Beowulf’s Mother yellin’ for the chuckers-out?" "Not a halberd, my good sir! Not a halberdl" "Ain't it?'
"No, I assure you! A fine seventeenth-century guisarme."
H.M., his feet wide apart, the shaft of the weapon planted on the floor like a noble Carolean soldier, now made the situation perfectly clear.
"This old trout," he bellowed, "thinks we stuck her in the behind with a seventeenth-century guisarme."
Through the audience ran a sort of suppressed shiver. Martin Drake noted, with amazement and pleasure, that it was not a shiver of horror. It was the spasmodic tension of those who try, by keeping face-muscles rigid, to avoid exploding with mirth. One elderly man, with an eyeglass and withered jowls, had stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. Another lay face downwards across the table, his shoulders heaving. Even with the auctioneer it was a near thing.