“Not of my own, but you have heard what Winterbottom wrote under the bust of Shakespeare last Jubilee?”
“I knew not that Apollo had ever visited him.”
“You shall hear:—
“In this here place the bones of Shakespeare lie,
But that ere form of his shall never die;
A speedy end and soon this world may have,
But Shakespeare’s name shall bloom beyond the grave.”
“I’ll trouble you, Mr Tinfoil, not to be so very witty at my expense,” growled out Winterbottom. “I never wrote a line of poetry in my life.”
“No one said you did, Winterbottom; but you won’t deny that you wrote those lines.”
Mr Winterbottom disdained a reply. Gaily did we pass the variegated banks of the river, swept up with a strong flood-tide, and at last arrived at a little island agreed upon as the site of the pic-nic. The company disembarked, and were busy looking for a convenient spot for their entertainment, Quince making a rapid escape from Winterbottom, the latter remaining on the bank. “Jenkins,” said he to the man christened Caliban, “you did not forget the salad?”
“No, sir, I brought it myself. It’s on the top of the little hamper.”
Mr Winterbottom, who, it appears, was extremely partial to salad, was satisfied with the reply, and walked slowly away.
“Well,” said Tom to me, wiping the perspiration from his brow with his handkerchief, “I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. I only wish father had been here. I hope that young lady will sing again before we part.”