“Gentlemen, you may smoke,” said he; “nor, indeed, has friend Paul any conscientious objections to the ladies smokin’.” He turned to the red-haired man with the trombone:
“Milk the bell,” said he, “my fluffsome Reubens.”
The red-haired fellow with the incipient beard, whom they called Fluffy Reubens, uttered a startled wail on the trombone, and walking over to the bell-pull, tolled the bell solemnly as he might have milked a cow.
He smiled at the peal that rang and rang through the house:
“It’s rather a good bell,” said he. “Nothing throaty about its top notes.” He turned to his scowling host: “We will put you to as little trouble as possible, Paul,” he said—“so I ring the bell. But if you would not mind asking your swoggle-eyed bottle-washer for the glasses it wouldn’t strain the etiquette——”
Rippley burst out laughing:
“That idiotic hireling man of yours thought we were bailiffs—his language was really quite naughty—for a butler. So Fluffy flung himself at his old legs and I clapped a hand over his fowling-piece—the language was within an ace of being obscene. We whipped him off his legs and sat on his chest and head, or he would have bawled murder. Of course we quite understand, indeed sympathize with, his haughty attitude towards tax-gatherers; but we cannot lightly put aside his stone-blindness to genius when he sees it in full flare of the electric light——” The old butler, sulky as his master, appeared at the door and stood there with stiff dignity. Rippley turned to him:
“Glasses, mister!” cried he.
The old servant took not the slightest notice—he was deaf to all vulgar appeal.
Pangbutt nodded to him: