Peabody. Before I entered the police, I had that melancholy honour. Certainly there is something in your notion of the geese that might be improved. Michaelmas-day might be made still more memorable by a yearly sacrifice, after the old Pagan manner, at the Hyde Park arch, under the statue. Recollecting classical instances—and on my beat at night, it is now and then a comfort to me to rub up my rusty Latin; indeed, I sometimes catch myself crying, “I præ sequor,” instead of “Move on, I’ll be after you”—well, as I say, recollecting classical instances, there might every Michaelmas be performed at Hyde Park, in honour and memory of the Statue Committee, the Great Goose Sacrifice.
Nutts. It sounds promising: go on. How—in your classical manner—would you manage it?
Peabody. Why, I propose to have an equal number—that is, a goose for every committee-man, whose name, for the nonce, the goose should bear. And the goose should have fillets of sage about its head, and a rope of onions circled about its neck and body; and its throat should be cut to the tune of the “British Grenadiers,” played on the brassiest band to be had; and it should be drawn, and stuffed and roasted, and its savoury, smoking body be divided amongst the populace.
Nutts. And so with every committee-man—that is, so with every goose?
Peabody. So with every goose. And so should the glory of the Committee endure to all time, and the names of a Rutland and a Trench be odorous in the land!
Chapter IX.
Nutts. (Opening door for child carrying hare in a dish.) Now, Adelgitha, you’ll tell Dobbs the baker to be very partic’lar with that hare. ’Tisn’t pleasant to send meat to the oven, and have back a cinder. (Exit child.)
Nosebag. Specially arter the trouble of gettin’ a hare. Hares aren’t wired every day.