Norman was, like the others, in such towering glee, and took so full a share of the witticisms, that were the more noisily applauded, the worse they were, that Harry suggested that “old June had lost his way, and found his spirits in Drydale—he must have met with a private grog-shop in the plantations—would not Tom confess”—“not he; it was all in private. He thought it was laughing-gas, or the reaction of being fried all the morning, holding forth in that Town Hall. He had longed to make a speech himself—no end of the good it would have done the old stagers to come out with something to the purpose. What would old Hoxton have thought of it?
“They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard;
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon;
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the mountains of the moon.
I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood shall daily quaff;
Ride a tiger hunting, mounted on a thoroughbred giraffe.”
“Not you, Tom!” cried Hector.
“You, the swell, the Eton fellow! You, to seek such horrid places.
You to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber lips, and monkey faces.
Fool, again the dream, the fancy; don’t I know the words are mad,
For you count the gray barbarian lower than the Brocas cad!”
“Nay, it is the consequence of misanthropy at the detection of the frauds of unsophisticated society,” said Norman.
The edge of life is rusted;
The agate studs and whisker ointment left him very much disgusted.
“Perhaps it was Miss Rivers forsaking him. Was not that rather spider-hearted, Tom?”
“Come, Harry, it is time to have done. We are getting into civilised society—here’s Abbotstoke.”
“Poor Norman, he is very far gone! He takes that scarecrow for civilised society!”
“Much better clothed than the society you have been accustomed to, July.” “What a prize his wardrobe would be to the Black Prince!” “Don’t insult your betters!” “Which? The scarecrow, or the Black Prince?”