“Look here, Si,” said Gabriel, “don’t you slander our bull-calf. He ain’t gold. He’ll be doggone good beef some day.”
“Oh, ye unregenerate!” almost screamed Si Blodgett. “Soon ye will be bowing down to wood and stone!”
“Galatea,” said the Poet, “what’s the next course?”
“Carrots, George.”
While Si Blodgett continued to groan unavailingly, the carrots were served. The Poet resumed his instrument, and never before was that classic, “Hiawatha,” adapted for banjo and guitar, so inspiringly rendered. It was repeated until Galatea produced the dessert of loaf sugar, and Si Blodgett showed signs of frothing at the mouth over the ungodliness of the scene. As Galatea tripped around the table, dropping lumps of sugar into grateful mouths, Si Blodgett came forward, stretching his arms across the table to Gabriel. He had failed to notice that the colt was keeping one eye on him, with the accompanying ear laid back.
“Oh, brother, brother,” he said, “beware—”
Whatever the warning was to be, it was cut short by a grunt caused by the colt thrusting his hind quarters brusquely into Si Blodgett’s stomach.
“Darn th’ critter!” exclaimed the exhorter, with an astonishing change of voice and sentiment. And he slapped Clarence smartly on the flank.
“Lookout, Si!” shouted Gabriel. “Th’ colt don’t like ye.”
Si Blodgett dodged barely in time to escape Clarence’s heels. The other guests were becoming restless. The Poet and the Artist joined Galatea beside Napoleon’s chair. The exhorter went and picked up his basket, and, approaching Gabriel, said:—