“I think it very likely, and that the fun is only begun,” replied I. “But come, let’s lend a hand to get the prog out of the boat.”
“Pat! pat! and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage,” cried Quince, addressing the others of the party.
The locality was approved of, and now all were busy in preparation. The hampers were unpacked, and cold meats, poultry, pies of various kinds, pastry, etcetera, appeared in abundance.
“This is no manager’s feast,” said Tinfoil; “the fowls are not made of wood, nor is small beer substituted for wine. Don Juan’s banquet to the Commendador is a farce to it.”
“All the manager’s stage banquets are farces, and very sorry jokes into the bargain,” replied another.
“I wish old Morris had to eat his own suppers.”
“He must get a new set of teeth, or they’ll prove a deal too tough.”
“Hiss! turn him out! he’s made a pun.”
The hampers were now empty; some laid the cloth upon the grass, and arranged the plates, and knives and forks. The ladies were as busy as the gentlemen—some were wiping the glasses, others putting salt into the salt-cellars. Titania was preparing the salad. Mr Winterbottom, who was doing nothing, accosted her; “May I beg as a favour that you do not cut the salad too small? It loses much of its crispness.”
“Why, what a Nebuchadnezzar you are! However, sir, you shall be obeyed.”