At last, when the pudding-plates were removed, and replaced by mounds of oranges and figs and dates; when port gleamed duskily in every glass, and the nut-crackers were freely circulating, Mrs. Johnson gave the anxiously awaited signal for the crackers to be pulled. Then indeed, pandemonium reached its height; then indeed, every head, old and young, was drunkenly crowned by paper cap or bonnet; and: bang! bang! bang! the squibs exploded up and down the table. The cloth was one glittering litter of green and red transparency, all mixed up with the orange-peel and silver paper. Luke and Jinny had each a musical instrument at their lips, and squeaked and squawked ceaselessly, their cheeks blown out and purple with the exertion. Vi Baker and Tommy Cox had their heads very close together over a finger-bowl, in which they were experimenting with those Japanese puzzles that open out in water; his arm was around her waist; and she, transported by the hectic screaming excitement of Xmas, was content to leave it there. Granpa, who had donned a rakish gilt crown, between whose spikes one could glimpse the gas-light reflected in the naked polish of his cranium, was busy making a collection of mottoes, riddles and sentimental verse, from the crackers, and reading them aloud. From the kitchen below, quavered the third repetition of “Good King Wenceslas.” Balaam Atkins whispered to Letty, in a tone pregnant of mournful meaning: “I wonder—if I might venture—to ask you—to pull with me, Miss Letty?”—Then, utterly abashed, realized what construction might have been put upon his innocent demand; and dropped the cracker, and went down after it, and remained obliterated for quite a period of time. And Mrs. Baker, wearing a washer-woman’s bonnet, which had an air strangely and horribly appropriate, was dancing,—yes, actually dancing, with Aunt Lou Cubitt; all enmity forgotten in the sudden discovery that forty years ago they had met at the same terpsichorean school, where little girls in frilled pantaloons learnt to jig and reel and polka.—And: “Do you remember the Bluebell Schottische?” cried Aunt Lou; which led to the pleasing exhibition just mentioned, of two middle-aged ladies gathering up their skirts, and prancing and twirling down the narrow space of the room between the wall and the row of chairs.
“I used to be light as a fairy,” panted Mrs. Baker, regaining her seat.
Mr. and Mrs. Johnson exchanged a mute dialogue of glances, which might be curtly translated as: “When?” “Now.” And Mr. Johnson, glass in hand, rose to his feet.
“Speech! Speech!” cried Tommy Cox, thumping on the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen—and friends,” began Mr. Johnson, making a fine distinction. “I must hurry up with what I’m going to say, because I can see the gas is goin’ down, and I haven’t got a penny for the metre—leave alone for the meat!” Here he made a great show of being terrified of Aunt Lou’s disapproval; but she, mellowed by port, merely smiled benignly; and he went on: “And I wouldn’t like to talk to you in the dark, my friends, and lose sight of your beaming faces wreathed in happy smiles, as my pal Will Shakespeare once said,—or was it Granpa Cubitt? ’Pon my word, I’m getting mixed with all these poets.”
Whereat there was great applause, and Granpa was patted vigorously on the back.
“Who has added so richly to the evening’s entertainment,” said Mr. Johnson, in an inspired sentence all by itself. Then he recommenced:
“I think I can say, in which my wife joins me,” (cheers) “that nowhere in England, no, nor yet anywhere else, has a merrier party sat round any table, nor had a merrier Xmas.” (Chorus of assent.) “So may you all enjoy the best of luck till we meet over our next plum-pudding.”
—A groan from Jinny, to whom the thought was agony. And, amid the cheering and tattoo of feet which followed the host’s oratory, Balaam Atkins, suddenly coming to the fore, begged to propose a toast to The Ladies. Leave being vociferously given, he gave utterance, in precise, rather lugubrious tones, to the following rollicking bit of sentiment: