“I’m afraid you will have a very poor dinner,” repeated the lady.—“Take off the cover, Sneider.—Will you allow me to help you to a piece of this?”
Rainscourt turned his head round to see if the object offered was such as to tempt his appetite, and beheld a—smoking bullock’s heart!
“My wife, my wife!” exclaimed he, as he darted from his chair; and covering his face, as if to hide from his sight the object which occasioned the concatenation of ideas, attempted to run out of the room.
But his escape was not so easy. In his hurried movement he had entangled himself with the long table-cloth that trailed on the carpet, and, to the dismay of the party, everything that was on the table was swept off in his retreat; and as he had blindfolded himself, he ran with such force against the German, who was in the act of receiving a dish from Sally, that, precipitating him against her, they both rolled prostrate on the floor.
“Ah, mein Got, mein Got!” roared the German, as his face was smothered with the hot stewed peas, a dish of which he was carrying as he fell on his back.
“Oh, my eye, my eye!” bellowed Sally, as she rolled upon the floor.
“My wife, my wife!” reiterated Rainscourt, as he trampled over them, and secured his retreat.
“And oh, my dinner, my dinner!” ejaculated the curate, as he surveyed the general wreck.
“And oh, you fool, you fool, Mr Potts!” echoed the lady, with her arms akimbo—“to ask such a man to dine with you!”
“Well, I had no idea that he could have taken it so much to heart,” replied the curate meekly.