"Long live the singer. Vivat hurrah!" bawled Uncle Kutowski.
But the hero thus honoured thought fit to cavil. "One generally says 'health to the singer' in such cases," he said, stiffening into frigid dignity.
The old man suggested that it didn't matter as long as one was sociable and friendly--that was the chief thing; and the painter, who for some while had been gazing into his glass in a profound reverie, suddenly uttered a deep groan, which resounded terrifically down the table.
This ejaculation of misery caused a fresh outburst of merriment. The revellers began to exceed all bounds; only the student with the slashed face smiled with meditative deliberation. He drank a special toast to the health of the despairing painter, and made him a bow fit for a prince.
"Silence, gentlemen," commanded Uncle, knocking on the side of his plate with his pipe. "Now I am going to make you a speech."
All at once forgetting his dignity, the Candidate yelled forth, "Long live all jolly good fellows."
"In the midst of our rejoicing," continued Uncle Kutowski, "we will not omit to think with gratitude of our noble host, to whom we are indebted for this and other enjoyable evenings."
"Hear, hear!" chortled the Candidate. He hiccoughed, and then became stonily immovable again.
"My dear nephew Leo, who well knows what a treasure he possesses in his grateful old uncle, honest old Uncle Kutowski, who would rather drink nothing but water, and never go out with a girl, than not do his duty to the death.... Now then, you may howl, if you like, you colour-dauber."
Instead of the painter, the Candidate set up a howl, in which the whole company joined.