“The army keeps a-jumpin’ on the bloomin’ chest of commerce to-night,” said he, “until I forget—hiccup—forget my intentions.”
The Major begged to remind the gentleman that this was not a Labour night, but the Feast of St. Valentine, when even the greyest sparrows skipped amorous with love’s delight along the homely necessary waterspout.
The draper apologized handsomely; and they drank together.
The draper was now called upon, as a man of taste in the matter, to make the speech of the evening: The Ladies—Lovely Woman.
He arose and spoke.
He apologized for having disturbed the harmony of the evening by his earlier essay, but the British workman was the thorn in his side——
A waggish commercial person, an atheistic upholsterer and something of a rake, called out that they had all understood that it was the splinter of a sherry glass that had been drawn from the wound.
The Major rose and called for order—their honest draper only used a metaphor, a So-to-Speak—besides, the splinter of glass had not been removed from the gentleman’s side, nor by any stretch of the imagination nor tribute to delicacy could it be called his side. The affair of the wine-glass, and therefore all reference to it, must be avoided—it was a painful subject, and the incident was now closed.
“Haw-haw!” guffawed the rakish upholsterer. “But the wound ain’t—it was our honest draper that re-opened the wound.”
The Major’s eyes twinkled: