In half-an-hour all was ready: the fair Titania did me the honour to seat herself upon my jacket, to ward off any damp from the ground. The other ladies had also taken their respective seats, as allotted by the mistress of the revels; the tables were covered by many of the good things of this life; the soup was ready in a tureen at one end, and Tom had just placed the fish on the table, while Mr Quince and Winterbottom, by the commands of Titania, were despatched for the wine and other varieties of potations. When they returned, eyeing one another askance, Winterbottom looking daggers at his opponent, and Quince not quite easy even under the protection of Titania, Tom had just removed the frying-pan from the fire with its residuary grease still bubbling. Quince having deposited his load, was about to sit down, when a freak came into Tom’s head, which, however, he dared not put into execution himself; but “a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse,” says the proverb. Winterbottom stood before Tom, and Quince with his back to them. Tom looked at Winterbottom, pointing slily to the frying-pan, and then to the hinder parts of Quince. Winterbottom snatched the hint and the frying-pan at the same moment. Quince squatted himself down with a serge, as they say at sea, quoting at the time—“Marry, our play is the most lamentable comedy”—but putting his hands behind him, to soften his fall, they were received into the hot frying-pan, inserted behind him by Winterbottom.
“Oh, Lord! oh! oh!” shrieked Mr Quince, springing up like lightning, bounding in the air with the pain, his hands behind him still adhering to the frying-pan.
At the first scream of Mr Quince, the whole party had been terrified; the idea was that a snake had bitten him, and the greatest alarm prevailed; but when they perceived the cause of the disaster, even his expressions of pain could not prevent their mirth. It was too ludicrous. Still the gentlemen and ladies condoled with him, but Mr Quince was not to be reasoned with. He walked away to the river-side, Mr Winterbottom slily enjoying his revenge, for no one but Tom had an idea that it was anything but an accident. Mr Quince’s party of pleasure was spoiled, but the others did not think it necessary that theirs should be also. A “really very sorry for poor Western,” and a half-dozen “poor fellows!” intermingled with tittering, was all that his misfortunes called forth after his departure; and then they set to like French falconers. The soup was swallowed, the fish disappeared, joints were cut up, pies delivered up their hidden treasures, fowls were dismembered like rotten boroughs, corks were drawn, others flew without the trouble, and they did eat and were filled. Mr Winterbottom kept his eye upon the salad, his favourite condiment, mixed it himself, offered it to all, and was glad to find that no one would spare time to eat it; but Mr Winterbottom could eat for everybody, and he did eat. The fragments were cleared away, and handed over to us. We were very busy, doing as ample justice to them as the party had done before us, when Mr Winterbottom was observed to turn very pale, and appeared very uneasy.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr Tinfoil.
“I’m—I’m not very well—I—I’m afraid something has disagreed with me. I’m very ill,” exclaimed Mr Winterbottom, turning as white as a sheet, and screwing up his mouth.
“It must be the salad,” said one of the ladies; “no one has eaten it but yourself, and we are all well.”
“I—rather think—it must be—oh—I do recollect that I thought the oil had a queer taste.”
“Why there was no oil in the castors,” replied Tinfoil. “I desired Jenkins to get some.”
“So did I, particularly,” replied Winterbottom. “Oh!—oh, dear—oh, dear!”
“Jenkins,” cried Tinfoil, “where did you get the oil for the castors? What oil did you get?—are you sure it was right?”