“What bridge?”
“Why, the bridge of your nose. I’ll hold it steady for you.”
YOU BE BLOWED.
Jaques accordingly seized Ranulf’s nose in his long arms, and giving it a hitch round the lightning-conductor at the top of the tower, held the end slanting, making it hang like the rope for the terrific ascents of tight-rope performers, and down this improvised bridge Ranulf slid successfully to the ground, after which Jaques removed the hitch from the lightning-conductor, and Ranulf, who had a taste for the sea, coiled his nose neatly upon the ground, like a hawser on board ship, and taking the coils in his hand, threw them over his shoulder. His brothers seeing this, stowed away their slack also, and had scarcely done so, when there was a tremendous flourish of trumpets, and a being that might have passed for a pantaloon, as he was clothed entirely in golden trouser-legs (the Blunderland substitute for coats of arms) entered the gate. In reality he was a herald, although you would not have guessed it, as he wore no ruff round his throat Behind him strode six stalwart trumpeters, each of whom, instead of blowing his own trumpet—as is too common nowadays—held his instrument to the mouth of his left-hand neighbour. There was an awkwardness about this arrangement, however, for the man at the right end of the line had no trumpet for his mouth, and the man at the other end had no mouth for his trumpet. But in Blunderland, difficulties which elsewhere would be thought insurmountable are soon overleapt. Accordingly, the sixth trumpet was managed thus: The moment the others were raised, trumpeter No. 1, who had no instrument, looked hard along the line, and called out, “No. 6, you be blowed!” and as obedience is the rule in Blunderland, as opposed to what occurs elsewhere, this command was quite enough to make trumpet No. 6 tootle-ootle away as loud as the rest.
TRUMPERY OBSTRUCTION.
It seemed to be the business of these trumpeters to make as much noise as they could whenever the unfortunate herald opened his lips to make his proclamation. The sort of thing that went on was this: The herald, having unrolled his paper, cleared his throat, of which there was much need; for if there was no ruff outside, that was more than could be said of the interior. If he had had colera he could not have been more nekroky.[7] Having given a hem, long enough to go round the skirt of a lady’s dress, even of modern proportions, he began to read—
“Roy——”
Instantly his thread was broken by tra ta ta, ti ta ta, tatata ta tum, tatatraratatata, from all the trumpets at once.
Another attempt to go on—