. . . . . .
“Now, Sandie,” cried Willie, one morning in the end of January, as he burst gleefully into his friend’s attic and surprised him at his porridge, “I’ve good news for you. You and I are both invited to the medical students’ supper, the night after next.”
“I don’t know that I care to go, Willie,” said Sandie. “Aren’t they just a wee bit noisy and rough at times?”
“Oh, that is nothing, it is only good-humoured and funny they are.”
“And don’t they as a body indulge in toddy to some considerable extent?”
“Perhaps, perhaps, but you and I shall indulge in gingerbeer and lemonade. Come, you mustn’t refuse. They will be offended. I won’t go unless you go, and if I don’t go I shall lose some good friends.”
“Well, Willie, for your sake, I’ll go.”
“That’s a man! You’ll hear some humorous speeches and some capital songs, most of them with choruses.”
Well, the night came round; and round the great tables in the dining-room of the Lemon Tree Hotel about a hundred as sturdy, happy, and healthy-looking young men assembled as ever you would wish to witness. They were not only happy, they were hungry. The speedy way in which the viands disappeared was proof positive of this. Every edible domestic animal seemed to be represented on these tables—turkey, geese, and fowls, pork, mutton, and beef, besides haggis galore, and plenty of mashed potatoes and sturdy Scottish kail.
Each plate was flanked by a tankard of table-ale. Nothing stronger. Stronger potations had yet to come.