Mr. Raikes perceived that his host desired him to conclude. So, lifting his voice and swinging his arm, he ended: “Allow me to propose to you the Fly in Amber. In other words, our excellent host embalmed in brilliant ale! Drink him! and so let him live in our memories for ever!”
He sat down very well contented with himself, very little comprehended, and applauded loudly.
“The Flyin’ Number!” echoed Farmer Broadmead, confidently and with clamour; adding to a friend, when both had drunk the toast to the dregs, “But what number that be, or how many ’tis of ’em, dishes me! But that’s ne’ther here nor there.”
The chairman and host of the evening stood up to reply, welcomed by thunders—“There ye be, Mr. Tom! glad I lives to see ye!” and “No names!” and “Long life to him!”
This having subsided, the chairman spoke, first nodding. “You don’t want many words, and if you do, you won’t get ’em from me.”
Cries of “Got something better!” took up the blunt address.
“You’ve been true to it, most of you. I like men not to forget a custom.”
“Good reason so to be,” and “A jolly good custom,” replied to both sentences.
“As to the beef, I hope you didn’t find it tough: as to the ale—I know all about THAT!”
“Aha! good!” rang the verdict.