Before the mantel, on huge iron dogs, was set a scarlet coffin.
On the scarlet coffin sat Bartholomew Doome.
About the room, seated at tables, young fellows were bawling a drinking chorus.
Before Doome stood the weak-kneed figure of the bailiff, gorgeous in an ill-fitting livery that was a world too capacious for his meagre body.
As the drunken fellow held the tankard of beer aloft he made a supreme effort to take a last high note—his voice cracked—he spilled the liquor on his upraised face, spluttered, coughed, tripped over his own feet, and fell—amidst a shout of laughter and loud cries of “Encore” from the assembled throng.
Rippley and Fluffy Reubens carried the fallen man to a sofa and laid him upon it.
There was a lull in the riot; and in the lull there arose from his chair, unsteadily, the figure of Ponsonby Wattles Ffolliott, rather the worse for drink. Holding a glass in his hand, he straddled over to Doome, where he sat on the scarlet coffin, and he uttered a silly laugh as he brought his vague legs to an unsteady halt.
“Hullo, Ffolliott!” cried Doome. “What is it?”
Ffolliott blew through dry red lips:
“Civilization,” said he, with a racking hiccup—“civilization (hiccup) has its drawbacks.”