“Lance named us,” said Dubby. “He ought to make suggestions.”
“Of a new name?” asked Sandy. “Call it the Eviscerated Emasculates.”
“Call it a damned failure,” said another, and was sat upon. They welcomed the diversion, but the thought had reached home.
“What’s the matter,” said Sam, when order was restored, “is that we aren’t serious enough.”
“Oh, hell!” said Lance.
“I mean it, Lance. We’re not a set of kids from the Lower School. If we were, we might sit round and read Chums and the Boy’s Own Paper.” Two men of the Classical Fifth and the Hell-fire Club looked guiltily at him, but decided that he was not making personal allusions. “As it is, we have higher interests. Now, there are six of us here and that’s enough, with doubling, to take parts in a Shakesperian play. I vote we read a play. In fact, I brought some down.”
This suited Lance, who had aspirations towards the stage. “Bags I Romeo,” he said.
Sandy was less fired to enthusiasm, but, “All right,” he said, “if you choose a play with lots of thick bits in it.”
“We certainly,” said Sam, “shall not read an edition prepared for the use of girls’ schoofs.”
“Merry Wives of Windsor, then,” said Dubby. “Lance can spout Romeo out of his bedroom window to stop a cat-fight.”