“Why can’t yow be quiet? interrupting that how,” cried Sim, remonstrating. “Yow can’t hev no more ale till the debate’s ended. Do you want to hev the mummy—mummy—”
“Course we don’t,” said Big Harry, aloud. “But who’s him?”
“I say,” cried Sim, angrily, “do you want to have the mummy—mummy”—then angrily to Barker, “Why don’t you tell a fellow?”
“Myrmidons—myrmidons of”—whispered Barker.
“All raight, all raight,” said Sim, impatiently, “I know—mummy—mummidons of a brutal holygarchy down upon us?”
“And hale us off,” whispered Barker, for Sim had evidently forgotten his speech.
“Yes, yes, I know,” whispered Sim. Then aloud, “And hale us off—”
“Hear, hear!” roared Harry, hammering his empty mug on the table; “raight, lad, raight. Here, sum un, tell the mummy to bring the ale.”
“Sit down, Harry,” shouted Sim. “I say hale us off to fresh chains and slavery. I say, mates,” cried Sim, now growing excited, and waving his hands about, “as the holygartchy of a brutal mummidom.”
“No, no,” whispered Barker, behind his hand, “Myrmidons of a brutal oligarchy.”