Charlie and Walter Stanley, and Alec Boyce—the lads who went one summer with Old Merry to Switzerland—had been entrusted with the preparation of part of the evening’s amusement. They were constituted masters of the ceremonies, and had been charged to bottle up all their fun for at least two days before the party, in order that it might explode and scintillate for the benefit of the company. So, as a host of packages were put down in the hall, Charlie said—
“Here are our properties, Mr. Merry—wigs, crinolines, whiskers, royal robes, banners from the camp of King John, feathers from the chief of the Mohawks, diamonds lent privately by the secretary of Sinbad the Sailor, the shield of Achilles, kindly contributed by Mr. Barnum; and here—”
But here he stopped, for the rattle of horses’ feet outside, and a sharp rap at the door, announced fresh arrivals. Charlie was in a dramatic humour, so, striking an attitude, he cried—
“By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes;
Open, locks, whoever knocks.
And, guards, what ho! bear hence our treasures to some secret place.”
“Such a getting up-stairs you never did see,” as in a twinkling the impromptu guards obeyed the mandate of their chief.
Tom and Ada Martin, and the fiddle, were the next to arrive. The fiddle was Tom’s; his special hobby. No party was complete without it, for if it were not there neither was Tom. His motto was, “Love me, love my fiddle.” A merry fellow was Tom; he could sing and play, and the proudest moments in Ada’s life were when she accompanied him in a solo on his violin. Moreover, he wrote poetry (?), rattling, merry ditties, that broke out into exuberant choruses of