“Don’t be so gruff, Watcher,” said Mrs. Pottage sternly. “You’ve been sitting like a skelington at the feast ever since you arrived. Wake up and be a man, do.”
Thus adjured Mr. Watcher unwillingly stood up in the middle of the circle.
“What’s he do now, Hopkins?” Mrs. Pottage asked.
“I’m trying to remember. Oh, yes, of course, I know. I know. I know! He’s blindfolded,” Mr. Hopkins exclaimed in a tone as near to being cock-a-whoop as his low-pitched funereal voice could achieve.
“Mrs. B., you’ve got a nice big handkerchief. Tie Watcher up, there’s a good soul,” the hostess ordered.
Mrs. Bugbird in a gurgle of suppressed laughter muffled the coal-merchant’s disagreeable countenance with her reserve handkerchief, from which his bald head emerged like one of those costly Easter eggs that repose on silk in the centre of confectioners’ shops.
“Now what does he do, Hopkins?”
“Just a minute, Mrs. Pottage. I’m stuck again. No, I’m not. I remember perfectly now. Turn him round three times.”
This was done, and there was another pause.
“Well, what next?” everybody asked impatiently.