When excited Mrs. Marlings had some difficulty with her aspirates. "Oh! Mr. Wilton," she cried to the butler, who entered at that moment, and stood regarding the scene as Achilles might have viewed the reverses of the Greeks. "Oh! Mr. Wilton! take hit away, please, hit will poison us."
With his head held well in the air Mr. Wilton beckoned to John, who walked to the fireplace. With a majestic motion of his hand Mr. Wilton indicated to the footman that Ginger's offending dinner was to be removed. Gravely John took up the tongs, deliberately gripping the herring amidships, and turned towards the door, holding it aloft as if it were some sacred symbol.
Ginger's eyes were glued to the blackened shape.
"It ain't every red 'errin' wot 'as a funeral like that," remarked Bindle to Ginger.
Mr. Wilton threw open the door. Suddenly John started back and retreated, the herring still held before him, all smell and blue smoke.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" murmured Bindle, who was in a direct line with the door, "if it ain't the Ole Bird!"
Lady Knob-Kerrick entered, followed by Miss Strint, her companion and echo. Casting one annihilating look at the speechless John, she gazed with amazement at the disorder about her. Miss Strint gave vent to a spasmodic giggle, which Lady Knob-Kerrick did not even notice. Her gaze roved round the room as if she had found herself in unexpected surroundings. Finally her eyes fixed themselves on Mr. Wilton.
"Wilton, what is that John is holding?" Lady Knob-Kerrick prided herself on her self-control.
All eyes were immediately turned upon John, who shivered slightly.
"It is what they call a herring, a red-herring, my lady," responded Wilton. "Poor people eat them, I believe."