“How—how—how do you do?” stammered William Jordan hoarsely, as he removed his hat and bowed low.
“Oh, chuck it!” said the goddess, “or the crowd will think you are doing it for money.”
As they entered the saloon, in which they proposed to partake of supper, Mr. Dodson said to the goddess, “Kid, I’ll lay you a shilling you can’t make the poet tackle stout and oysters.”
“A bet,” said that good-natured divinity.
On the appearance of these robust delicacies, Mr. Dodson laid a dozen oysters, a pint of stout, and a plate of brown bread-and-butter before Mr. William Jordan.
“Now then, my son,” said Mr. Dodson, with a wink at the goddess, “show Hera what you can do.”
A shudder of horror invaded the young man’s frame as he cast a glance of appeal at that stern deity.
“Not a bit of use, Mr. Tennyson,” said the relentless one, “you don’t leave this table until you have taken your whack.”
Although unable to comprehend the precise terms in which the goddess embodied her mandate, the despairing young man understood its purport only too well. In spite, however, of a sustained effort that approximated to real heroism, he had only swallowed half an oyster, two pieces of bread-and-butter, and sipped a small quantity of an ink-coloured beverage, of which the goddess availed herself freely, by the time Mr. James Dodson and the white-armed Hera had concluded their own exertions, which had appeared to afford them immense satisfaction.
Thereupon the goddess conceived it to be her duty to hold each oyster in its turn on a fork and compel, by the exercise of her own imperious will, “the poet” to swallow these delicacies. When this task had been fulfilled she said, “Now, Alfred, set about that stout as if you meant it, and then I’ll touch Jimmy for a bob.”