“Ah, theer’s some un else,” said Sim, and he sat down, while the sentries repeated their formula; the voices outside replied in due order, with the requisite pass-words, and three more entered to swell the little crowd. Sim then rose again, more important than ever.
“Now, then, brother sitterzens,” he began, “as I believe all the paytriots are here, we will now proceed to business.”
“Howd hard a minnit,” said Big Harry, who occupied a central position, “I want another gill o’ ale.”
Sim hammered the table with his little mallet, and exclaimed angrily,
“Yow can’t hev it now: don’t you see the brotherhood is setting?”
“’Arf on ’em’s a stanning,” said Big Harry, with a grin; “and if you’re goin’ to hev all this dry wuck, I must wet it.”
“Hee-ar! hee-ar!” shouted two or three voices.
“But don’t yow see as the brotherhood is a setting?” cried Sim. “The door is closed now, and we’re in secret conclave.”
“I don’t keer nowt about no secret concave,” growled Big Harry. “A mun hev another gill o’ ale.”
“Let’s hev some more drink, then,” cried several voices.