Chapter Twenty One.
One of the Simple Ones.
“I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,
Choicest cates, and the flagon’s best spilth.”
Robert Browning.
“Faugh,” said Bruce, on his return to Camford, “that fellow Hazlet isn’t worth making an experiment upon—in corpore vili truly; but the creature is so wicked at heart, that even his cherished traditions crumble at a touch. He’s no game; he doesn’t even run cunning.”
“Then I hope you’ll p–p–pay me my p–p–p–ponies,” said Fitzurse.
“By no means; only I shall cut things short; he isn’t worth playing; I shall haul him in at once.”
Accordingly, Hazlet was invited once more to one of Bruce’s parties—this time to a supper. It was one of the regular, reckless, uproarious affairs—D’Acres, Boodle, Tulk, Brogten, Fitzurse, were all there, and the élite of the fast fellow-commoners, and sporting men besides. Bruce had privately entreated them all not to snub Hazlet, as he wanted to have some fun. The supper was soon despatched, and the wine circled plentifully. It was followed by a game of cards, during which the punch-bowl stood in the centre of the table, rich, smoking, and crowned with a concoction of unprecedented strength. Hazlet was quite in his glory. When they had plied him sufficiently—which Bruce took care to do by repeatedly replenishing his cup on the sly, so that he might fancy himself to have taken much less than was really the case—they all drank his health with the usual honours:
“For he’s a jolly good fe–el–low.
For he’s a jolly good fe–el–low,
For he’s a jolly good fe–el–l–ow—
Which nobody can deny,
Which nobody can deny;
For he’s a jolly good fe–el–low,” etcetera.
And so on, ad infinitum, followed by “Hip! hip! hip! hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah!!!” and then the general rattling of plates on the table, and breaking of wine-glass stems with knives of “boys who crashed the glass and beat the floor.”