“Well, we didn’t all marry Xanthippe,” put in Cæsar firmly, “therefore we are not all satisfied with the situation. I, for one, quite agree with Sir Walter that something must be done, and quickly. Are we to sit here and do nothing, allowing that fiend to kidnap our wives with impunity?”
“Not at all,” interposed Bonaparte. “The time for action has arrived. All things considered, he is welcome to Marie Louise, but the idea of Josephine going off on a cruise of that kind breaks my heart.”
“No question about it,” observed Dr. Johnson. “We’ve got to do something if it is only for the sake of appearances. The question really is, what shall be done first?”
“I am in favor of taking a drink as the first step, and considering the matter of further action afterwards,” suggested Shakespeare, and it was this suggestion that made the members unanimous upon the necessity for immediate action, for when the assembled spirits called for their various favorite beverages it was found that there were none to be had, it being Sunday, and all the establishments wherein liquid refreshments were licensed to be sold being closed—for at the time of writing the local government of Hades was in the hands of the reform party.
“What!” cried Socrates. “Nothing but Styx water and vitriol, Sundays? Then the House-boat must be recovered whether Xanthippe comes with it or not. Sir Walter, I am for immediate action, after all. This ruffian should be captured at once and made an example of.”
“Excuse me, Socrates,” put in Lindley Murray, “but, ah—pray speak in Greek hereafter, will you, please? When you attempt English you have a beastly way of working up to climatic prepositions which are offensive to the ear of a purist.”
“This is no time to discuss style, Murray,” interposed Sir Walter. “Socrates may speak and spell like Chaucer if he pleases; he may even part his infinitives in the middle, for all I care. We have affairs of greater moment in hand.”
“We must ransack the earth,” cried Socrates, “until we find that boat. I’m dry as a fish.”
“There he goes again!” growled Murray. “Dry as a fish! What fish, I’d like to know, is dry?”
“Red herrings,” retorted Socrates; and there was a great laugh at the expense of the purist, in which even Hamlet, who had grown more and more melancholy and morbid since the abduction of Ophelia, joined.